The Dinner Party
by Joodiff
Summary: Grace is fond of Elaine, but her old friend has a terrible weakness - she really, really enjoys match-making... Set early S5. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

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 **The Dinner Party**

by Joodiff

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" _I think I'm considered to be quite an even-tempered guy, you know… outside of my work."  
_ – Peter Boyd, _Anger Management_

 **One**

Alighting from the black cab parked close to the elegant, well-appointed Highgate house that's her destination, Grace can't help but feel a distant but very real touch of apprehension as she pays the driver. Fond as she is of Elaine and her intelligent, affable husband Lochlan, she suspects that somewhere amongst the invited guests for this evening's dinner party there will be the obligatory unattached male friend that she will be effusively introduced to, and will be forcibly seated next to at the dinner table. All her past weary protests about such blatant attempts at match-making have fallen on deaf ears, to the point where she has more-or-less given up complaining about it. The widowers, the divorcees, the misogynistic, and the plain old-fashioned dysfunctional, she's met them all at Elaine's parties – each and every one of them lined up as a potential suitor despite her repeated assertions that if she had the time and inclination for such things she could find someone without any help from well-meaning but misguided friends thank-you-very-much. Still, her exasperation is not great enough for her to decline the warm invitations when they arrive. She's known Elaine for more than thirty years, both personally and professionally, after all, and they've been good friends for almost as long, so it's no real hardship to be sociable for a couple of hours to whichever poor, unfortunate devil has been selected this time.

Lochlan answers the door, leaning in to kiss her cheek with genuine affection as he greets her. Lochlan Buckley, everyone agrees, is absolutely the best thing that could have happened to Elaine after her messy and painful divorce from her philandering first husband, Paul. He came to London from Dublin at some point in the late 'sixties to study law, and has lived in the capital ever since. A successful barrister, he's a slim, gentle man with dark curly hair that's only just starting to grey, a wicked twinkle in his eye, and a warm, inclusive smile. Unusually, there doesn't seem to be anyone in their mutual circle of friends who has ever had a single bad word to say about him. Yet, despite never having witnessed him in action herself, Grace knows he has a reputation for being a shark in the courtroom; that he's well-known as a clever, cunning adversary who's notorious for delivering a crippling blow to the prosecution at exactly the precise moment when it will do the most damage. She's heard his name being angrily muttered by frustrated police officers on more than one occasion, but that doesn't stop her from liking him enormously.

"Grace," he says, stepping back to allow her into the narrow, tile-floored hall. Forty years away from his home city, and his Irish accent is still perceptible. "So lovely to see you again; it's been far too long."

It has, she realises, as she murmurs quiet pleasantries in return. Not only have things been busy at the CCU in the wake of the official investigation into Eddie Vine's murder, but on a more personal note there's been a sudden slew of family and academic commitments, not to mention a pleasant if far too-brief holiday in the South of France catching up with other old friends. Inevitable unwanted match-making or not, she's looking forward to a pleasant evening of gossip and chatter, of relaxing with good friends and forgetting all about the stress of work for a few hours. Tuning back in to whatever it is Lochlan is saying about the eclectic array of friends and friends-of-friends gathered for the evening, she's about to pass comment when the door at the very end of the hall, the one that leads directly into the large, expensive kitchen at the rear of the house, opens, and Elaine appears. She looks every bit as immaculate and expensively-dressed as ever.

A delighted smile of greeting accompanies, "Grace!"

Swooped upon, Grace chuckles at the heartfelt, demonstrative greeting, then allows Lochlan to take her coat as she says, "I was going to bring a bottle of that Cabernet Sauvignon you liked, but – "

"Oh, don't worry about that," Elaine interrupts with a dismissive wave of her hand. Unlike her easy-going husband, the auburn-haired, hazel-eyed Elaine is energetic and active. Always on the move, or so it's always seemed to Grace. Originally an overworked hospital psychiatrist, she's run her own private clinic for several years now, specialising in the treatment and management of psychosis, schizophrenia and some of the more difficult, exotic personality disorders. Like Lochlan, she's good company and universally well-liked. Trying to seize Grace by the elbow, she says, "Come with me, there's someone I'd really like you to meet."

Offering a forbidding scowl in response, Grace retorts, "What have I _repeatedly_ told you about trying to set me up with someone?"

"Oh, I know, I know," her impatient friend says, sounding unrepentant, "but I really do think you'll like this one. He's an old friend of Lochlan's, and he plays tennis with Daniel – you remember Daniel? Julia Newman's husband? Anyway, you'll like him."

Amused and infuriated, Grace can only say, "Will I?"

"Actually," Lochlan reassures with a wink, "I rather think you might. Don't worry, he's not another Colin."

"Colin's all right," Elaine protests, despite her husband's pained grimace.

"I'm sure he is," Grace dutifully agrees, briefly calling to mind the balding, stocky man in question. A financial advisor, she recalls. Harmless enough, but dull. _Incredibly_ dull, in fact, if his stolid conversation over dinner the night they were introduced is anything to judge by. "He just wasn't my type."

"Maybe not, but I think," Elaine says, with what might be a slight smirk, "that Tim just might be."

Grace raises a pointed eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Single," her old friend elucidates, "well, divorced, anyway. Tall. Athletic."

"Solvent," Lochlan puts in. "Drives a rather nice little Alfa Romeo coupé."

Elaine nods, adds, "Nice house, too. _South_ of the river, unfortunately."

"Really," Grace protests, feeling as if she's already fighting a losing battle, "I'm not remotely interested in those sorts of things. You both _know_ that."

There's a definite knowing smirk from Elaine this time. "Did I mention that he's also very handsome? And I mean, really _very_ handsome."

"I'm not that shallow," Grace insists. Before her assertion can be in any way challenged, she continues, "So, what's the catch?"

An innocent look. "Catch? There's no catch, Grace."

Sighing, she says, "Oh, come on, now, Elaine. You know as well as I do that at our age there's _always_ a catch."

Her friend shakes her head reprovingly. "So cynical…"

"All right," she contests, "why is this solvent, apparently handsome divorcé still single then, hm?"

"He's lovely," Elaine insists, not answering the question. "Charming, intelligent, fascinating… just your type."

"Lochlan?" Grace appeals.

The man in question holds up his hands in a placid gesture of surrender. "Best to just go along with it once she gets the bit between her teeth, I always find."

"Come along," Elaine says, this time succeeding in grabbing Grace by the elbow. "He doesn't bite. You'll like him."

Finding herself exuberantly escorted into the huge open-plan room that serves as both living and dining room, Grace has very little opportunity to protest further. A small knot of people lingers near the dining table, their polite chatter not quite drowning out the quiet background music that sounds as if it might be Vaughan Williams. One of the women, olive-complexioned and petite, Grace recognises immediately: Helen Price, a fellow psychologist and another of Elaine's erstwhile colleagues from days long gone by. Not exactly a close friend, but interesting company and pleasant enough to talk to at such social events. Attention momentarily diverted, Grace doesn't notice the tall, grey-haired, bearded man Lochlan is now talking to.

Not, that is, until Elaine tows her towards the two men and announces, "Grace, this is Tim. Tim, Grace."

Elaine is right. Tim is tall, athletic-looking in a late-middle-aged sort of way, and rather more than passably handsome. He is also incredibly familiar.

Dark brown eyes widen a fraction in surprise as they acknowledge each other. Grace thinks his is probably a less obviously shocked and horrified reaction than her own. She stares at him, bewildered as much by his casual attire as by his presence and the unusual mode of address. Realising that the moment of strained silence is stretching, she manages an inarticulate, "Um…"

"Grace," he says, irony heavy in his smooth baritone as he extends a hand towards her. "It's a pleasure."

"Drinks," Elaine trills, darting away and dragging Lochlan with her before anything more can be said.

"'Tim'?" Grace accuses, trying to make sense of the sudden bizarre turn of events. She's beginning to wonder if she's slipped into one of those alternate dimensions people sometimes talk about. One of those parallel places where everything is nearly, but not quite, the same.

Peter Boyd inclines his head in an almost sheepish half-nod. "Indeed."

" _Tim_ ," she repeats. Her brain doesn't seem to want to let go of the idea.

"Yes." A rather more askance look is followed by, "Peter Timothy…?"

Grace waves an ineffectual hand at him. "I know that… it's just… _Tim_?"

The way he starts to bristle is palpable. Also, reassuringly familiar. "What's wrong with it? It's a perfectly good name."

"Why are you here?" she manages, still not at all sure she hasn't fallen asleep at her desk and slipped into a particularly strange dream.

"Because I was invited?" he suggests.

"'Tim'?" she says again, searching for a credible explanation that makes rather more sense than unexpectedly finding herself in an alternative universe.

Boyd sighs, his growing irritation evident. "I was his first son, so my father insisted I was called Peter after _his_ father, but my mother never liked the name. She only agreed to it on condition that I was known to everyone as Tim like _her_ father. Happy now?"

The explanation is plausible enough, but Grace isn't quite satisfied. "But I've _heard_ people call you Peter."

"People at _work_."

"Oh. True." Mystery solved, she frowns and says, "I didn't know you were a friend of Lochlan's."

He scowls back. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

Realising that she probably does sound rather shrill and reproachful, Grace quickly shakes her head. "No, of course not. Sorry. I'm just… still a bit surprised."

Boyd's response is dry. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Bloody Elaine," she says with some feeling, glaring across the room at their oblivious hostess. "No matter _how_ many times I tell her not to, she keeps trying to set me up with someone."

"You, too, huh?"

There's so much resignation in his tone that Grace finds herself shaking her head again and allowing a slight smile of fellow-feeling. She sighs, mentally squares her shoulders and says, "Well, this isn't _excruciatingly_ embarrassing at all, is it?"

Boyd snorts. "I've had better starts to an evening."

"Thanks," she sniffs, but she knows exactly what he means.

"No, I didn't mean…" An almost helpless shrug. "Sorry, Grace. I'm a bit off-balance here. I expected Elaine to be up to her old match-making tricks, but…"

Feeling rather noble, she rescues him. "It's all right. I understand perfectly."

He looks past her towards the other end of the room where Elaine is now talking to a vaguely familiar big, fair-haired man with a luxuriant and eye-catching moustache. "Should we tell her? What's the etiquette for this sort of snafu?"

"I don't – "

" _Timmy_ ," a loud, enthusiastic female voice interrupts. Its newly-arrived owner, a statuesque brunette with the kind of figure that heterosexual men notice and keep noticing, sweeps towards them, a mild, ineffectual-looking man in an old-fashioned tweed sports jacket trailing in her wake. To Grace's intense amusement, the woman bears down on Boyd with predatory tenacity and cranes her head up to kiss him soundly on both cheeks. With no less volume, she demands, "Where have you _been_ , darling? We haven't seen you since Erin's twenty-first…"

"Fiona," Boyd says by way of greeting, detaching himself to extend a hand towards her male companion. "Stannard."

"Boyd," the other man replies, shaking hands with a vigour that surprises Grace. "Still got the Alfa?"

"And who's this?" Fiona inquires, her appraisal sharp and curious as she all-but looks Grace up and down.

Boyd gestures in a vague, languid sort of way. "Oh, this is Grace. She's – "

"A friend of Elaine's," Grace cuts in and finishes for him, before he can offer any further explanation. As a deterrent to further questions it seems to work. The jealous spark of interest in the other woman's gaze dies away and she offers polite, if lukewarm, words of greeting. Further conversation is prohibited by Lochlan's loud and amiable announcement that dinner is ready and that the assembled guests should take their assigned places at the long dining table. Grace makes a quick head-count as people start to obey, and reaches a figure of twelve including herself before she finds herself being ushered to a seat halfway down the table. She settles with Boyd one side of her and the moustached man who introduces himself simply as Simon on the other.

Opposite them, Fiona is muttering to Stannard in a manner that makes Grace suspect she is thoroughly berating him for something. Stannard, however, doesn't look at all bothered, just nods in patient silence and keeps on smiling. To Boyd, Grace whispers, "Husband?"

"Stannard? God, no," is the low reply. "He's nowhere near brave enough to take on _that_ job."

Smirking to herself, Grace picks up her cloth napkin and unfolds it. Now her initial shock has ebbed, she's beginning to see the limitless number of potential possibilities the evening could offer. If she's not mistaken, she's going to be able to tease Boyd about this dinner party for months – possibly _years_ – to come. In a quiet murmur, she asks, "Who's Erin?"

A quick sideways glance. "My goddaughter. Well, _one_ of my goddaughters, actually."

"Really?" Fascinated without really knowing why, she asks, "How many do you have?"

He seems to need to think about it. "Three. And a godson."

"Good Lord." She can't imagine who would consider him a good candidate for such a position, let alone there being more than one misguided parent with the same idea. Unless all four children are Fiona's, of course.

"Chardonnay?" Lochlan says at her shoulder, and before she can answer, he shows her the label on the bottle. "Moreau Blanc, obviously, not a cheap – "

"Pretentious bastard," Boyd interrupts, taking the bottle from him and pouring a healthy amount into Grace's glass without waiting for confirmation before also filling his own.

Lochlan's answering grin is easy, not at all offended. "At least I can afford to be, eh, Tim?"

"Now, now," Grace chides, shaking her head as the still-grinning Lochlan reclaims the bottle and moves away. To Boyd, she says, "It's considered bad form to insult one's host, you know."

His dark eyes glint at her. "Is that right? Good thing I've got you here to keep me in line, then, isn't it?"

Not sure what to make of the sly way the comment is delivered, she opts for a derisive sniff in reply. Let him play games if he wants to. On the other side of the table, seated between his wife and Lochlan, Helen Price's distinguished-looking husband Graham catches her eye, and says with a smile, "Grace, lovely to see you. How was Avignon? Did you visit the _Palais des Papes_?"

"I did," Grace confirms, smiling back, and while Helen continues to talk to Stannard they discuss the great Gothic building for several minutes until Elaine's starter – some sort of vegetarian antipasto that turns out to be very good – is served. The evening, she reflects, is improving minute by minute. Definitely.

Stannard, not-the-husband-of-Fiona, addresses the man next to her, asking, "How's that redoubtable older sister of yours, Boyd? Still terrifying the natives in Basutoland?"

"Lesotho," Boyd corrects. "She's fine, as far as I know. Coming back to London for a couple of weeks at Christmas, I believe."

"Down, boy," Fiona tells her companion. "I've told you before, Pam's got far better taste."

"A fellow can dream," Stannard says, ever-genial. He smiles at Grace, and for a moment she's certain she sees a spark of deliberate devilment in his dark grey eyes. Interesting.

Not as interesting as Fiona's, "We ran into Esther at _Lombardo's_ a couple of weeks ago. She asked after you."

"Did she." It's not a question.

A dramatic loud sigh and a shake of the head are followed by, "You could at least _call_ her, Timmy; it wouldn't kill you."

 _Doubly_ interesting. Grace waits for the reply. When it comes, it's deadpan. "Why would I want to do that?"

"You're the most infuriating man," Fiona announces. "She _likes_ you."

"So? My mother likes me, and I don't call her, either."

" _Honestly_ ," is the disgusted retort, "I don't know _what_ they all see in you."

Amused, but not daring to show it, Grace concentrates on the antipasto. It seems safer. Not as intriguing, but in her considerable experience, people who don't seem to be paying attention learn a lot more from listening quietly than those who make the mistake of being seen to be curious.

"I hope you don't think I'm rude for asking, Grace," the big man on the other side of her – Simon – says, "but didn't we meet at the Healthline mental health conference in Bournemouth last year…?"

It could explain her vague sense that they've met before, but caught off guard, she struggles to recall something – anything – that might enable her to accurately place him. She doesn't succeed. Sandy hair, glasses, moustache, earnest expression. Choosing her words with care, she replies, "I'm afraid I'm terrible with names and faces…"

"Thompson," he offers with an easy smile. "Doctor Simon Thompson. Lead Clinical Psychologist at the Shawcroft Trust."

Oh. He's _that_ Simon. She's read several of his papers and found them both thought-provoking and inspiring. He's considered something of an _enfant terrible_ in some academic circles, but that's never stopped her from liking anyone. Flustered, she nods too rapidly. "Of course, how silly of me. You gave a very interesting talk on the benefits to very young children of early intervention trauma-focused therapy."

"I did," he agrees with a nod. "Common-sense, really, but surprisingly difficult to sell as a national initiative. This is my significant other, Ian. He's a solicitor, I'm afraid, but try not to hold that against him."

The man on the far side of Simon leans forward to smile a polite greeting. Younger than his partner by several years, he's slim, pale-eyed, and good-looking, with a very fair complexion that makes Grace think he probably has fairly-recent Scandinavian ancestry. She murmurs a return salutation, and wonders why Simon gives her a quizzical look as she picks up her glass.

The answer comes as a gentle prompt, "And the elegant gentleman on your right would be your… husband?"

Caught with a mouthful of wine, Grace nearly chokes. Swallowing quickly to avoid disaster, she manages, "Absolutely _not_."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Simon apologises, immediately contrite. "I don't usually make assumptions, but…"

He lets the words trail away, leaving her to wonder about the 'but'. To break the lengthening awkward silence, she says, "This is – "

"Tim," Boyd interjects, also leaning forward as Ian did. "Friend of a friend, sort of thing."

The still bemused-looking Simon nods again. "Oh. I see. Well, nice to meet you, Tim."

The difficult, banal exchange is terminated as Elaine and Lochlan rise and start to clear away the empty plates to an effusive chorus of thanks and praise. The gentle hubbub of voices enables Grace to lean towards Boyd and feel confident she won't be overheard as she says, "First time I've _ever_ heard you referred to as a gentleman."

"Elegant, or otherwise?" he replies with a momentary raise of his dark eyebrows.

She considers him for a moment. Casually-dressed, yes, but in an understated, sophisticated way. The subtly-striped blue shirt with its heavy gold cufflinks wasn't purchased in any High Street store, she's certain, and neither were the dark cavalry twill trousers. Simon's right, he does look rather elegant in an insouciant, raffish sort of way. She finds the thought slightly disturbing. Reaching for her glass again, she says, "I don't think I'm qualified to comment on that."

Boyd studies her for a moment, whatever he's thinking hidden behind his impenetrable dark gaze, and then he says, "You look pretty good yourself tonight, actually."

Startled, Grace blinks. Humour is the easiest and safest response. "What, as opposed to how dreadful I usually look?"

He frowns. "No, that's not… I just meant… It's a nice dress, okay?"

She stares at him, perplexed and suspicious. "Oh?"

"Yeah," he mutters, clearly wishing he hadn't said a word. "That sort of… sludgy… colour. It suits you."

"Keep digging, Boyd," she tells him with a smirk.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Halfway through the main course – salmon _en croûte_ – Grace starts to become more and more aware of the irritating, intrusive and far too frequent loud sound of the woman to Boyd's right, a thirty-something blonde apparently called Michelle, giggling. It _is_ a giggle, too. Not a laugh or a chuckle, but a high-pitched, annoying schoolgirl giggle. Her unsmiling husband Larry, seated opposite her, is probably twenty years older than she is, if not a bit more. Thickset, broad-featured and not exactly the most attractive man Grace has ever set eyes on, he is, apparently Something In The City. Which, the cynical side of her thinks, probably accounts for the blonde, pretty, and much younger wife.

It doesn't seem to be either Larry or Elaine making Michelle giggle so much.

Trying to listen to what Simon's telling her about an interesting case study, it's not easy to simultaneously eavesdrop on what's happening to her right, but Grace does her best. She can't catch everything that's being said, but she hears enough to deduce that it's Boyd's determined and not very subtle charm offensive that's causing most – maybe _all_ – of the giggling. He's recounting some long, self-deprecating tale about an arrest he made early in his career. She doesn't catch all the details, but an entirely naked man and a bewildered group of elderly American tourists seem to feature prominently. Seated at the end of the table between husband and wife, Elaine is laughing, too, but Larry seems less amused. Considerably so, in fact.

"In fact, clinical trials have shown…" Simon continues, but Grace's attention is now so divided that although she nods and tries to remain looking interested, she barely takes in anything of what he's saying.

What on earth, she wonders, does Boyd think he's doing? Flirting so openly with Michelle, right in front of her husband? Because he _is_ flirting, no doubt about it. And – damn him – it seems he's very good at it, too. Proper flirting, not the kind of arch, languid banter they've shared on and off since they first met, several years before the inception of the CCU. Certainly, Michelle seems to be loving every single moment of it, if that infuriating giggle is anything to judge by.

"And," Simon says, "the exception doesn't always prove the rule, does it?"

"No," Grace agrees, with only a vague grasp of what he's talking about. It seems to be the right answer, however, because he forges on with a flurry of quick hand movements.

It doesn't matter. Nothing to do with her who Boyd does or doesn't flirt with. Who he is – or _isn't_ – attracted to.

"You might want to rescue him," Simon says in a conspiratorial tone, making her snap her focus back onto him. He gives her a forgiving, slightly knowing smile that tells her that her former inattention has been noted. "Your 'friend-of-a-friend'. Before he gets too far out of his depth."

"I don't think," she says, trying not to sound bitter, "that he needs it."

Simon leans closer to her and lowers his voice even further. "Our dear sweet Michelle has a well-known thing for older men, and Larry… Well, let's just say that rumour has it that Larry does a little more than simply _tolerate_ her peccadillos."

Not sure if she's misinterpreting his archly-delivered words, Grace raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I have no interest in participating in sports myself," Simon says, which sounds like a _non sequitur_ , but turns out not to be when he adds, "but I do like to watch."

"Oh," she repeats, with a very different inflection. She didn't misunderstand what he was implying, then. She's not sure how she's supposed to react. "Oh, I see. Well, each to their own, I suppose."

"Indeed," Simon agrees. "Live and let live, eh?"

"Simon," Lochlan says, from the other side of Ian, forestalling further comment, "Ian says you're off to Canada in a couple of weeks…?"

Diligently concentrating on her meal for a few moments, Grace considers the situation. Can't decide if she's wildly amused, or not. Boyd, of course, is perfectly capable of looking after himself, and she has no doubt he could – and _would_ – unceremoniously extract himself from any situation that turned out not to be to his particular taste. He's in no way vulnerable, and there's no moral reason why she should interfere to save him from himself. Besides, maybe he already knows what he seems to be getting himself into. Maybe the idea actually appeals to him.

She knows it wouldn't. His psychology simply doesn't work that way, and she should know, having been able to study him more-or-less on a daily basis for several long years. He's a man of complex and contradictory character, and despite his apparent bullish self-confidence, when he's not playing the role of fearless leader or hard-bitten detective there's a much shyer, far less audacious side to his nature that she's always found rather engaging.

She probably _does_ have some sort of duty to rescue him. Or at least warn him.

Decision made, she waits for a suitable lull, and as a smiling Elaine says something to Michelle, Grace leans towards Boyd to murmur a quiet, "He likes to watch."

The effect is instantaneous. His head snaps round and he stares straight at her, expression momentarily frozen somewhere between shock and disbelief. To his credit, his reply comes with less volume than she expects. " _What_?"

"Larry," she clarifies. "That's what does it for him, apparently. Didn't it occur to you to wonder why he hadn't asked you outside for flirting so outrageously with his wife?"

"I wasn't…" he starts, then seems to decide that denial is pointless. "Well, fuck."

"Sorry," Grace says sweetly. But she isn't. Not at all.

"What are you two muttering about?" Fiona asks from the other side of the table. "Do tell."

"Salmon," is Boyd's prompt reply. " _Salmo salar_. I'm thinking of taking up fishing."

"You?" Stannard chortles. "Fifty quid says you'd be bored to death in ten minutes flat."

"Martin used to go salmon fishing in Scotland," Fiona says with a pained grimace. "He was great friends with Sir Edward Stewart-Markham's doctor, and – "

"So, Grace," Helen says, distracting her. "How are David and Nicola getting on at university?"

It's an obvious question, and a fair one, but not one that the very closest of her friends would ask. It's not Helen's fault – Grace knows there's no malicious intent behind the inquiry – but the words cause an immediate pang. A mixture of sadness, regret, and resignation. She resists the temptation to shrug, settles for, "Very well, I think. I don't see much of them nowadays. David's in Leeds, and Nicola decided on Plymouth. They usually opt to stay with their father during the holidays. Which is perfectly understandable, of course."

Helen mumbles an embarrassed and largely indecipherable reply, and is rescued by her husband who says, "Step-kids, eh? You try your best with them, but when all's said and done blood's – " The way he stops so abruptly makes Grace suspect that someone, presumably Helen, has given him a sharp kick under the table.

"Top up?" Simon says, wine bottle in hand. Mouthing a silent thank you for the timely intervention, Grace nods. He gives her a slight, sympathetic smile and obediently refills her glass. Determined polite chatter resumes, and for a moment it feels as if everyone is talking at once in a vain attempt to banish the awkward moment.

Boyd's voice close to her ear makes her jump as he inquires, "All right?"

He smells different. It's a ridiculous time to notice. She's sat next to him so many times in meetings and interviews that she's very used to the distinctive scent of him, a familiar, almost comforting mix of soap and male grooming products, a scent that changes subtly throughout the course of the day until only a hint of it remains. Tonight, he smells of something heavier, spicier. Very masculine in character, and a long, long way from unpleasant. It makes her feel heady. Or perhaps that's just the wine. Grace nods, manages a quiet, "Yes."

"Tactless prick," is his succinct verdict. She glances at him, looking for any trace of irony, and finds none.

Elaine and Lochlan start to clear plates again, to another grateful round of approval.

"I wish I saw more of them," Grace says to Boyd, adding for clarification, "my step-children. We got on so well when they were little. I don't know what happened. When things changed."

"When you divorced that useless waste of space you used to be married to?" he suggests, ignoring the glare she shoots him to continue, "They're both adults now, Grace. They'll either come around eventually, or they won't."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Yes."

Without thinking about it, she pats his arm. "It's not working. But thank you."

The response is a gruff, "Any time."

Fiona is watching them closely, Grace realises, her gaze shrewd and thoughtful as if she thinks she can see something that no-one else seated at the table can. It's unnerving, at best. Deciding to ignore the feeling that they are being minutely studied and assessed, she looks towards Helen and Graham, but both are deep in conversation with Simon and his partner, Ian. Despite herself, she glances at Fiona again, and finds herself pinioned by a thoughtful look that's accompanied by an interrogative, "Step-children?"

"Two," Grace confirms, not sure what else she can do but answer. "My ex-husband's first wife died when the oldest was only four."

"Oh, how tragic."

Surprised by the level of sincerity evident in the other woman's tone, Grace nods. "It was. When I first met Owen he was really struggling to cope."

Something of an understatement, she reflects, remembering how bad the really bad days had been for him. She'd immediately wanted to help, of course, and he'd been pathetically grateful for it. At the time she'd honestly believed that she _was_ helping, and when one thing had slowly led to another, she'd had her own reasons for not facing the truth about just how weak – and how needy – he really was. Marrying him had seemed a practical sort of thing to do. Stability, security, a ready-made family…

" _My_ ex-husband," Fiona announces, "was a drunk and a gambler. A womaniser, too. When he ran off to America with his secretary, he left me with two kids and a pile of debts. I had to sell just about everything – including the house – to avoid bankruptcy."

"That's…" Grace replies, not knowing quite what to say.

"Unfortunate?" Fiona offers with a bitter smile. "I thought so, too. Turns out, I should've listened to my mother and married the boy next door when I had the chance."

"Shouldn't we all?" Grace says, thinking of Dougie Turner, the boy-next-door she grew up with, and shared an awkward and clandestine kiss with on her fifteenth birthday. Dirty-blond hair and a cheeky grin. Moved to Manchester in his early twenties, and was never heard from again. Not by her, anyway. She wonders where he is now, what he's doing.

"Martin came back eventually, tail between his legs," Fiona carries on, but Grace's attention shifts to Boyd as he leans towards her again.

She can barely hear him as he informs her, "I was the boy next door."

" _You_?"

"Mmhm. We grew up together in Forest Hill."

"Brace yourself, lads," Stannard says, addressing the group in general, "I have a feeling we're in for the traditional 'all men are complete bastards' speech."

Lochlan, bearing what appears to be a large and extremely decadent gateau, immediately offers a good-humoured but no-nonsense, " _After_ dinner, if at all, Fi."

Fiona smiles a tight, thin-lipped smile in response and says nothing. Frosty does not begin to describe the look she gives Stannard, but either he's oblivious, or he simply doesn't care.

Electing to try the _panna cotta_ that Elaine brings out from the kitchen, Grace casts an envious eye over the oozing thick slice of chocolate gateau delivered to Boyd. She wonders if he would stab her with his pastry fork if she took the liberty of trying to sample it. Quite possibly, she decides, knowing how territorial he can be about food. More than one loud squad room squabble has erupted over his firmly entrenched belief that seniority of rank gives him the unassailable right to the last croissant, doughnut, or other coveted coffee-break morsel.

"Very nice, Elaine," Fiona says, delicately sampling the _panna cotta_. " _Almost_ as good as home made."

"I'm glad you approve," their hostess retorts with admirable restraint. She adds a pointed, "Of course, if I'd had more time… but what with the clinic, and only just getting back from Saint Lucia…"

Grace hears Boyd's quiet snort at the elegant put-down and doesn't dare look at him for fear of chuckling herself. Stannard, however, guffaws openly and says, "Now, now, ladies, put your claws away."

"So," Helen says, changing the subject loudly and brightly, "has anyone tried that new Caribbean restaurant in Kilburn…?"

Unexpectedly, it's Boyd who volunteers, "I have. I took a… friend… to dinner there a couple of weeks ago."

Fiona perks up again, her sulkiness falling away. "Oh?"

"Food's okay, if on the pricey side," he pronounces, which Grace knows is absolutely _not_ the information the other woman is looking for, "but the parking…"

"The delicious blonde who was with you at the Marlowe and Gregson bash?" Stannard inquires. His hands make vague but easily-interpreted sculpting gestures in the air. "The well-stacked one with all the spectacular curves?"

"Marianne?" Boyd shakes his head. "God, no. She's Sir Neil Mackinley's niece. Angels fear to tread, and all that."

Stannard laughs. "Once bitten, twice shy, eh?"

"Trust me, I didn't give her the chance to bite. Mackinley's very friendly with the Commissioner."

"Terrible man," Fiona sniffs. " _You_ , Timmy, not _him_. Though even for a politician I've heard he's a particularly nasty piece of work."

The conversation twists and turns, much of it passing Grace by as she makes further determined inroads into the copious contents of Lochlan's wine cellar. In the end it's Simon who murmurs to her, "Cheer up, darling, the ordeal's nearly over."

She gives him a tired smile. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to the _hoi polloi_ ," he reassures her. "She's one of a kind, isn't she, our Fiona? Heart of gold, to be fair, but a bit of an… unfortunate… manner. And don't let appearances fool you, she and Henry simply adore each other."

Grace frowns. "Henry…?"

He nods towards Fiona's companion. "Stannard."

"Oh. I was never told his first name."

"They live together in blissful sin somewhere near Harrow. He's _extraordinarily_ well off," Simon tells her, putting a heavy and humorous stress on the superlative. Grace acknowledges his words with a nod, but her heart isn't in. He gives her a long, thoughtful look, then says, "So, are you going to tell a near-stranger what the real story is with you and your really rather gorgeous 'friend-of-a-friend'?"

Startled out of her increasing lethargy by his directness, Grace inquires, "What do you mean?"

"Fi's crush. Tim." Another long, incisive look is followed by a mild shrug. "Not that it's any of my business."

It's not. Not at all. But the wine has lowered her inhibitions, and for some reason discussing the whole… tricky… situation with someone she barely knows seems considerably easier than opening up to a friend. Which is still the very last thing she'd willingly do, wine or no wine.

"We were set up," she admits with a resigned sigh. "By Elaine."

Simon doesn't look at all surprised. "Well, of _course_ you were, darling. Elaine's congenitally incapable of not meddling when it comes to unattached friends and acquaintances. And?"

"And…" Grace says, trying to decide exactly what to tell him. "Let's just say that although neither of us knew the other was going to be here tonight, we're not exactly strangers."

He nods. "Ah. Which, I assume, dear Elaine didn't know?"

"Still doesn't," she admits. "As far as I'm aware."

"And it feels a little too awkward to attempt explain things now," Simon says, reading her thoughts perfectly.

Grace nods. "That's about the size of it."

He seems to muse on the problem for a few moments before asking, "Old flame?"

"Bo… Tim?" She shakes her head. "No. No, nothing like that."

"Something a _little_ like that," he contradicts with a gentle smile. "My dear, all night you've been surreptitiously ogling him when you thought no-one was looking."

 _Ogling_? The hot tingle of a flush starts high in her cheeks. "He's a _colleague_."

He hunches his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "So?"

"So," Grace insists, "it's not… like that."

Simon, however, turns out to be persistent. "Isn't it?"

"You should be a therapist," she tells him, in a vain and not very amusing effort to change the subject. Simple denial doesn't seem to be working, after all. Then, what does it really matter what she says to a virtual stranger?

He smiles, not at all unkind. Looking past her, he murmurs, "I can see the attraction. Ian despises me for it, but I do have a bit of a thing for the tall, dark-eyed, handsome ones."

"It's a terrible weakness to have, isn't it?" Grace says after a moment, with a return half-smile, well-aware of what she's finally admitting to. She's sure she should feel more guilty and embarrassed than she does.

"It's a cross we'll just have to continue to bear," Simon agrees, "though with eyes like those to drown in…"

"Stop it," she reproves, forcing herself not to chuckle. "He'd be mortified if he heard you say that."

He _does_ chuckle. "See, that's the interesting thing about straight men, Grace – most of them are just a little bit fascinated by the dark side."

"Not Boyd," she asserts, giving up on the still too-alien 'Tim'. "He's the most _heterosexual_ of heterosexual men."

"If I had a pound for every time I've heard that…" A quick, wicked grin, one that amuses her for all the wrong reasons. A moment later, he continues, "So? What's the obstacle to enjoying a little divine debauchery?"

"He's in charge of the police unit I work for?" Grace suggests in a low voice, not sure why she's able to open up to her fellow psychologist about things she barely even dares to admit to herself. The copious quantity of alcohol now diluting her bloodstream has to be to blame, she's sure. "Not to mention – "

"Toast!" Stannard declaims loudly, startling everyone around the table into silence. He gets none-too-steadily to his feet. "To our always generous hosts, Lochlan and Elaine!"

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

"You're drunk," Boyd accuses, dropping down next to her on the long leather sofa. He sounds amused, and he looks slightly tousled, which might – or might not – have something to do with gallantly offering to help Michelle clear some of the remaining debris from the dining table out to the kitchen.

"I'm not," Grace tells him with considerable and considered dignity, trying not to picture him pinned up against Elaine's huge American-style fridge by the beady-eyed and tenacious Michelle. "I might be pleasantly relaxed, but in no way, shape or form am I drunk."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Okay."

"Okay." Sipping her brandy, she lets her gaze idly roam for a moment, surveying their fellow guests. Larry, Simon, and Stannard seem to be outside on the patio smoking postprandial cigars, while Elaine, Helen and Ian are sitting chatting at the table. Graham is nowhere to be seen, and Lochlan is hovering near the kitchen door talking to Michelle. Or being talked _at_ by Michelle. One or the other. Still mulling over her dark suspicions regarding the pinned-to-the-fridge scenario, and recalling her earlier conversation with Simon, Grace says, "I wonder if Lochlan knows about Larry's… proclivities."

"Oh, I don't think he's in much danger," Boyd says, stretching out his long legs. "Elaine would claw Michelle's eyes out before she could lay a single finger on him."

"Didn't fancy it yourself, then?" she asks, the impertinent question voiced before she has a chance to think better of it.

The answering look he gives her is enigmatic, but the verbal reply is simple enough. "Call me old-fashioned, Grace, but I've never considered sex to be a spectator sport. Strictly participants only for me, thanks."

"Maybe Larry likes to participate as well as watch," she suggests, mainly to see his horrified reaction.

A quiet derisive snort and, "Maybe he does, but as far as I'm concerned three's _definitely_ a crowd."

"It's nice to know you're not obsessed by stereotypical male fantasies, Boyd."

He frowns. "Eh?"

"Two girls, one guy," Grace clarifies. A perplexed, slightly panic-stricken part of her mind can't believe she's leading such a conversation with _him_ , of all people. The spectre of the cold sobriety of the Monday morning to come tries to manifest itself, but she determinedly ignores it.

A muscle twitches in Boyd's cheek, betraying the amusement he hides incredibly well as he retorts, "Well, I suppose there are exceptions to every rule."

"Oh, you'd run a mile," she guesses with a chuckle. He would… wouldn't he?

This time he doesn't bother to hide his wry grin. "You know me _far_ too well, Grace."

She smirks at the tacit agreement, but doesn't have time to comment as Graham returns to the room, barking, "Some bloody little shit has keyed my damn car. Can you fucking believe it?"

A polite flutter of commiseration and mild excitement goes around the room, and Lochlan abandons Michelle to ask, "Where did you leave it?"

"End of the road, near the church," Graham tells him, scowling. "I went to get Helen's shawl for her, and the whole right side has been done. Every single damn panel. It's going to cost me a bloody fortune."

"Saturday night Youth Club," Lochlan says. "It's a decent area, but we've had trouble with the kids from there before."

"I'm going to call the police," Graham announces. "Little bastards can't – "

"Oh, there's no point," Helen tells him, joining the small throng. "They won't come out for something like that. We'll just have to claim on the insurance."

"Like fuck we will," her angry husband growls back. "Do you know what it would do to our annual premium?"

Lochlan glances at his expensive-looking watch. "Well, it's only half-ten. They don't finish up down there until eleven."

"So?" Graham demands.

"So," Lochlan explains patiently, "we have our own Peeler right here. On your feet, Tim, this is your big moment."

Not stirring, Boyd groans and then protests, "I'm a detective, for fuck's sake, not a PCSO. What do you expect me to bloody do? March up there and launch a full-scale investigation?"

"No," Lochlan says, neatly plucking the half-empty brandy glass from Boyd's hand. "Something much more effective, old lad. Go up there and read them the Riot Act. Shout at them, and throw your weight around a bit."

Boyd rolls his eyes. "Right, because that's _really_ going to help, isn't it?"

"It might make them think twice about doing it again," Grace points out. She's not sure whether she believes it, or whether she says it just for the fun of irking him.

He gives her a sideways glare. "Whose side are you on?"

"Lochlan's," she tells him, straight-faced.

"Up you get," Lochlan says, having put the glass aside. "We'll even come with you for moral support, won't we, Price?"

"Oh, for…" Boyd complains, but gets reluctantly to his feet. "Fine. Whatever you say."

"Good man."

"Complete waste of bloody time," Boyd grumbles, but allows himself to be shepherded out of the room, leaving Grace to shake her head and smile to herself.

Helen, who doesn't seem to be anything like as annoyed about what's happened as her husband, sits down next to her. Her opening gambit is direct. "That's him, isn't it?"

Bewildered, Grace frowns. "Who? What?"

"Tim," the other woman says, nodding towards the door to the hall. "He's your boss at the Cold Case Unit, isn't he? I saw his picture in the evening paper recently. Something about drink-driving and a young motorcyclist getting badly injured?"

"It was a set-up to discredit him," Grace tells her, the urge to defend him far stronger than any lingering desire for discretion. She knows how ridiculous the claim sounds in such a quiet, domestic setting, but the truth's the truth. "His drink was spiked. There _was_ an accident, that's true, and a girl _was_ hurt, but Boyd wasn't responsible. He wasn't the one driving."

"Oh." A thoughtful pause. "Well, that's good, then. He really doesn't seem the type."

"He's not," Grace assures her. "They printed an update on the story a few days afterwards, but of course it was buried away at the bottom of page ten or something instead of being plastered all over the front page."

"Always the way," Helen says, sounding sympathetic. Seeming to lose interest in the matter, she inquires, "So, are you two…?"

"No," Grace replies, perhaps a shade too quickly. "No, no, nothing like that. In fact, I had no idea he was going to be here. I didn't even know he knew Lochlan and Elaine until tonight."

A sage nod accompanies, "Don't tell me, Elaine's been up to her old tricks again, hasn't she? Match-making?"

"Should my ears be burning?" the woman herself asks, gliding across the room to join them. "Helen, Simon wants a word about something. I told him he couldn't come back inside unless he ditched the cigar, so now he's lurking out there in the cold on a point of principle."

Helen laughs and stands up. "Sounds just like Simon."

As she moves away, Elaine takes her place on the sofa. Gimlet-eyed, she says, "Well?"

"Well, what?" Grace asks, not intending to make her old friend's life easy by playing along.

Elaine heaves a dramatic sigh. "You know very well _what_ , Grace. Or rather, _who._ Tim _._ He's lovely, isn't he?"

Not the first word that generally pops into her head when she thinks of Boyd, Grace muses. Deadpan, she says, "He seems… very nice."

"'Nice'?" Elaine echoes, clearly outraged. "' _Nice'_? That's the best you can do?"

Deciding that it's time to finally come clean, Grace says, "Well, if you want me to be completely honest – "

But Elaine isn't listening. "Half the divorced forty-something women in London are running after him, tongues hanging out, and your considered opinion is that he 'seems very nice'?"

"Elaine – "

"You could do so much worse, you know," Elaine continues. "He's sober, hard-working – "

" _Elaine_ ," Grace presses.

" – and the ex-wife lives a long, long way away in Turin."

It's more than enough to divert her attention away from the need to explain things. Faster than she intends, Grace says, "Turin?"

Elaine shrugs. "Well, she's Italian, so..."

Not sure why she's so surprised, Grace echoes, "Italian?"

"Mm," Elaine confirms, plucking at an invisible bit of fluff on her elegant black dress. "Family used to own a delicatessen in Stepney until all the redevelopment that went on in the area during Thatcher years, apparently. I think that's where they first met, actually."

Recalling snatches of a long-ago idle conversation, Grace almost nods but stops herself just in time. Curiosity and just a touch of masochism make her ask, "You knew her?"

"Mary?" Elaine shakes her head. "Not personally, no. Lochlan did, of course. He and Tim have been friends for _years_. There was a son… can't remember his name, off-hand. Bit of a tearaway, by all accounts. Ran away from home a few times, and eventually disappeared for good."

Grace knows the sad story so well that she's not sure she can give an appropriate-sounding response. "That's – "

"Terrible," Elaine supplies with a grimace. "I know. According to Lochlan, it was just about the final straw for their marriage. I think they staggered along together for a couple more years, but that sort of pressure… Well, it's going to make or break a relationship for good, isn't it?"

"It is," Grace agrees, reflecting on all the things that went wrong in her own marriage. Too many demands, not enough time…

"Anyway," Elaine continues, "whatever else he is or isn't, he's certainly not another Owen."

He's definitely not, as Grace is well aware. He has his weaknesses, but Peter Boyd is a much stronger, tougher man than her ex-husband ever was – or ever will be. In every single way she can think of. Stronger, tougher, and much, much more dependable, despite the capricious side of his nature. She nods. "I believe you."

"But," her friend guesses with a searching look, "you're still not interested? You don't find him at _all_ attractive?"

How, Grace wonders, is she supposed to answer such a question when she's been consciously attracted to him on at least some level ever since they first met? It's still so clear in her mind, the memory of that initial encounter. A wintry crime scene, an only partially-clothed dead man staring up unblinkingly at the cloudy sky, his blood-streaked body shielded from public gaze by temporary screens, and a tall, good-looking, but fiercely impatient man in a long dark coat barking orders at scurrying subordinates. Not the most romantic of introductions, but there had been something about him... She manages a weak shrug. "I didn't exactly say _that_."

"It's the police thing, isn't it?" Elaine says, seemingly not aware of how close to the truth she is. "Grace, you can't write off a whole profession because of _one_ bad experience."

"I'm not," she insists, refusing to entertain any half-buried thoughts of DS Harry Taylor. Such a long time ago. An entire lifetime ago, it sometimes seems. Yet, even then she was old enough and experienced enough to have known better, to have asked the questions that would have saved her from… She shakes her head. "I haven't. That was years ago, anyway. It's just… well, it could be… difficult. Because of work."

"Why? The Met must be _thousands_ strong. The chances of you – "

"Elaine," a chortling Simon calls from the now partially-open patio window. "Bit of a crisis. Henry's fallen into the begonias."

It's the kind of announcement absolutely guaranteed to terminate every other conversation taking place in the immediate vicinity, Grace reflects as she gets up and follows a wide-eyed, incredulous Elaine towards the rear of the house. Certainly not something one hears every day of the week.

-oOo-

"He frightened the bloody bejesus out of them," Lochlan announces, still laughing as he takes a seat at the dining table. "Sweet Mary, mother of God, you should have _heard_ him effing and blinding at them."

" _Tim_?" Elaine says, sounding so sceptical that Grace has to struggle hard not to laugh. " _Our_ Tim? But he's so… so…"

"Easy-going?" Stannard, who's recovered admirably from his horticultural mishap thanks to a large drink, says. "Even-tempered? Ah, well, it's always the quiet ones you need to watch out for you, you see."

 _Easy-going? Even-tempered? Quiet?_ Struggling with the notion, Grace says nothing. If the extraordinary evening has taught her anything, it's that Boyd's friends and acquaintances – the ones who don't stem from the workplace – seem to have a completely different view of him than his long-suffering colleagues.

Fiona says, "True, but he's always had a _bit_ of a temper, even when we were kids. When my brother deliberately broke his favourite toy train, my father had to step in and physically separate them. And Mark was _seven_ – two years older."

"What about the car?" Helen asks, her attention all on Lochlan. "Did he find the boy responsible?"

"Naughty, naughty," Lochlan drawls, waving a languid finger at her. "You shouldn't assume that the culprit was of a particular gender."

"I'm a therapist, Lockie, not a bloody barrister," Helen counters, putting down her half-empty glass. "Well?"

Lochlan shakes his head as he picks up the brandy bottle sitting in front of him. "Sadly, Tim-of-the-Yard made no arrests. But I don't think the guilty party will do the same thing again in a hurry. Certainly not round here."

"Where are they, anyway?" Fiona asks. "Tim and Graham?"

"Still looking at the Jag," Lochlan informs her, refilling his glass. "Tim thinks some of the scratches will polish out."

"Oh? And when did he become an expert on such things?"

"To be fair," Stannard tells his partner, "he did completely restore that old roadster of his, didn't he?"

"The Frog-Eye?" Lochlan says, showing renewed interest in the conversation. "Lovely little car. I always wanted an Austin-Healey. Last Christmas, I asked him if he wanted to sell it to me, but I got a very short answer."

"Good," Elaine says, rolling her eyes at her husband's foolishness. "We have more than enough – "

"Come and talk to me," Simon murmurs to Grace, smiling in encouragement as she glances round at him. "Ian's abandoned me for Michelle, which most _definitely_ isn't going to end well for either of them."

Standing on the edge of the small group seated at and clustered around the dining table, Grace decides to accede. Letting Simon take her arm and escort her back towards the comfortable leather sofa at the other end of the room, she says, "Doesn't she know that you and Ian are a couple?"

"I'm not sure," he says, waiting for her to settle before seating himself, "that she sees that as any sort of impediment."

"More of a challenge?"

"Exactly," he beams, making himself comfortable. "Unfortunately for her, Ian has even _less_ interest in the sensual appreciation of the female form than I do. So, you were married then?"

"I was," Grace agrees, wondering again what it is that makes him so very easy to talk to, "to a weak, inadequate man who turned out to need me far more than I was _ever_ going to need him."

"Some inequalities are easier to live with than others, eh?"

"Owen didn't need another wife," she tells him, ignoring distant pangs of disloyalty, "he needed someone who was prepared to be a nursemaid, surrogate mother, and therapist all rolled into one. In hindsight, I think part of me knew that right from the start."

"But you married him anyway? Why?"

"I think," she says, considering the matter seriously, "that by then I was tired of having my heart repeatedly broken. Of falling madly in love only for things to go wrong the moment the honeymoon period was over. I suppose that I thought that settling for security and stability with a decent man that I at least _liked_ was the sensible thing to do. I was in my early forties when we got married, and a little tired of unwillingly being what nowadays they'd call a serial monogamist."

It sounds so… dispassionate… when put in so few words, she thinks. So cold and calculated. But it wasn't like that. Was it?

Simon doesn't criticise, just asks, "Could you have stayed with him?"

"Was there a good reason _not_ to, you mean?" Grace shakes her head. "No. No, there was no sudden, dramatic reason to end it. He wasn't knowingly abusive or unpleasant. Just… draining. Whatever I gave, Owen always wanted more. Money, attention, affection… you name it. I was fond of him, yes, but I wasn't in love with him, even at the start, and as time passed being with him became more and more emotionally exhausting. I just woke up one morning and realised that for me, at least, there was absolutely no point in carrying on. I regret the effect divorcing him has clearly had on my step-children, though."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Simon says, "but getting married under such circumstances seems… atypical. You seem to be much more the kind of woman who lives or dies for the _grande passione_. Metaphorically speaking."

Unnerved and a little flattered, Grace allows a quiet, rueful chuckle. "I doubt anyone here would agree with you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning… well, I suppose I'm seen as… the sensible one. The calm, collected one who – "

" – has her shit together, as our exuberant American cousins would say?"

"If you like," she agrees. Not the words she would have chosen, but he's right.

"Bollocks," Simon says with a disparaging snort. "What do they know? When I look into your eyes all I can see is fire, Grace Foley. Christ, I'd probably shag you myself if I was in the _least_ bit that way inclined."

Genuine surprise makes Grace blink. "Thank you… I think."

He chuckles, reaches out to take her hand. "Tell me about your handsome policeman."

"He's not mine," she points out, trying not to sound as mournful as the plentiful amount of wine and brandy she's consumed is making her feel.

Simon squeezes her hand gently. "But you'd like him to be."

"Sometimes I let myself think," she says, considering her reply, "that we could be very good together. Complementary chemistry, you know? Then I remember what he's _really_ like, and how much he infuriates me, and it seems like a ridiculous idea."

"Ian infuriates me, darling," Simon informs her, "but I still fancy him like mad."

In a half-hearted attempt to change the subject, she asks, "How long have you two been together?"

"Five, nearly six years. Neither of us thought it would last." A thoughtful look. "And how does _he_ feel about _you_?"

"Ah, well that's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't it?" Grace replies with a deep sigh that isn't at all feigned. It seems Simon isn't quite done with her yet. "We've become good friends over the last few years, and when we're not squabbling over something stupid at work we get on rather well despite our differences. But for him… I think that's about as far as it goes."

Simon looks quizzical. "But you've never discussed it with him?"

"No," she says, almost shuddering at the thought, "and nor am I ever intending to. We have to work together. The idea of making a complete fool of myself and then having to face him every day…"

Simon is looking thoughtful. "You remember what I said about you watching him when you thought no-one was looking…?"

Seeing a chance to even the score a fraction, Grace makes sure her tone is deliberately disdainful as she says, "I believe the word you used was 'ogling'."

"Was it? Well, that was a bit insensitive of me, wasn't it? Anyway," Simon leans towards her a fraction, "the point I wanted to make is that you're not alone. He watches _you_ , too."

Refusing to allow herself to be intrigued by the idea, she retorts, "Doesn't mean a thing. Boyd watches every woman within twenty feet of him purely as a matter of principle."

"But his attention always comes back to _you_ ," Simon points out. "Come on, Grace, we're both psychologists. We study human behaviour, you and I. Don't tell me you really hadn't noticed?"

"I hadn't," she insists, "and even if I _had_ , I wouldn't have thought anything of it."

"Why not?"

"Because," she says, beginning to flounder. "Just… because. Oh, Simon, trust me, I'm really _not_ his type. I'm at least ten years too old, for a start, and that's a _conservative_ estimate."

"Age is irrelevant in matters of the heart, my dear."

She nods, willing to concede the point. "And I'd be the first to agree with you if I didn't know better in this case."

"I don't know the man," Simon says, releasing her hand, "but, like you, I'm a trained observer, and I'm very good at my job. Tim – or whatever you care to call him – doesn't chase women. _They_ chase _him_. If he allows himself to be caught now and again, well that's just human nature. Now ask yourself _why_ he doesn't give chase."

"Because he's too damn lazy?" Grace suggests, with more bitterness than she intends.

"Because," Simon corrects her, "whether he realises it or not, his attention is elsewhere, and he's conflicted."

"Conflicted?"

"You said it yourself – you have to work together."

"Simon – " she starts, but their conversation is halted by the return of a still-angry and muttering Graham. He marches past them towards his wife, Boyd ambling in his wake. Hands buried deep in trouser pockets, he comes to a halt a couple of feet from the sofa and regards them with placid curiosity. Uncomfortable under his steady gaze, Grace asks, "No luck catching the culprits, then?"

"Too many of them," he replies with a slight shrug. "Must've been getting on for thirty kids down there, all of them looking as guilty as sin."

Simon stands up and proffers a hand. "We didn't manage to introduce ourselves properly earlier. Simon Thompson."

The hand is taken, shaken and released. "Peter Boyd."

"Known as Tim?"

"Indeed."

"I'm afraid I've rather been monopolising your… friend's… attention. That's the trouble with psychologists – we find each other _far_ too fascinating." A quick, self-deprecating smile. "Grace was just telling me all about you."

"I wasn't," she denies, but not quickly enough to prevent the discouraging frown that's sent her way. "We were talking about – "

"Conflicted emotions," Simon supplies. "How we, as a species, can find ourselves wanting something that we're far too afraid to acknowledge, let alone actively seek to obtain."

Boyd's response is a dry, "Sounds enthralling."

"Ignore him," Grace instructs, shooting him a warning glare before returning her attention to Simon. "Boyd thinks that psychology is a dark art at best, and that all psychologists are witch doctors."

"It's a point of view," Simon says, unruffled. "So, Tim, let's go and find out where Lochlan's put the brandy, and then you can tell me what it is about us that you mistrust."

Grace waits for the terse, bristling refusal. It doesn't happen. Boyd gives her a startled, almost helpless look, then allows himself to be towed away by Simon, who is – rather surprisingly – a good three or four inches taller than him. Caught between sudden panic and the strong desire to laugh, she decides it's well past time to visit their hosts' elegant, marbled-tiled bathroom.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

"I mean," Fiona's voice in the hall below filters up to Grace as she reaches the half-landing where the staircase makes a ninety-degree turn, "I'm sure she's a very nice woman, but what on _earth_ does she think she's doing chasing after men at _her_ age?"

It's more than instinct that freezes Grace to the spot. It's curiosity, apprehension, and a sharp, unpleasant stab of self-doubt. It's ridiculous to automatically think that she's the subject of the querulous inquiry, of course, but –

"I don't think," Stannard's calm voice responds, "that chatting over dinner quite constitutes – "

"You know what I _mean_ ," Fiona interrupts, volume rising. "She's been fawning over him all evening. Poor Tim; he must find it _so_ embarrassing."

"You're being a drama queen, Fi." Stannard again. "As per bloody usual. And even if you _were_ right, he's a grown man, for heaven's sake, and more than capable of looking after himself. Besides, I rather like her. She's intelligent. Sparky. Not like some of those vapid, big-titted blondes we've seen come and go."

"Henry!"

"What?" Stannard demands. "Look, just because he popped your cherry for you back in the 'sixties – "

"Oh, grow up, Henry. I was _seventeen_. Jealousy is all very well in its place, but that was almost forty years ago."

"Exactly my point, my dear. What Tim does, and _who_ he does it with, is nothing to do with us."

"With _me_ , you mean."

"Personally," Grace hears him declare, "I look on it as a good thing if someone with a bit of something about them is showing an interest. God knows, he could do with a woman with a bit of backbone and common-sense in his life. Having a tame therapist on tap wouldn't do him any harm, either, if you ask me."

"She's got to be at _least_ five years older than he is," Fiona complains, her tone strident.

"So?" Stannard again. "She obviously likes him, Fi, so leave the poor bloody woman alone."

"But – "

"You'd rather he was off shagging some beautiful but brainless creature young enough to be his daughter?"

"No, of course not, but – "

"Well, then. Leave them to it." A momentary pause. "I'm going upstairs for a pee. Get back in the kitchen and give Elaine a hand with the damn coffee, or we'll be stuck here for at least another hour, and if I have to listen to just one more of Larry's interminable golfing stories…"

Still frozen halfway down the stairs, Grace forces a deep breath into her lungs. The hard edge of sobriety is rapidly catching up with her, and the illuminating conversation below has caused a tight knot of nausea to form in her stomach. Embarrassed doesn't come close to how she's feeling. _Humiliated_ is closer to the mark, and even that doesn't really come close to describing it.

Hearing Stannard's heavy footfall on the stairs below, she takes another steadying breath, forces a measure of brittle composure and starts her descent again. What else can she do? They come face to face in just a few seconds, and it takes a huge effort of will to look him in the eye and nod as he says an abrupt, "Oh. Hello, there."

Tempted as a large part of her is to simply flee the house with no explanation, Grace makes herself return to the big downstairs room where most of the assembled company are still gathered. Lochlan and Elaine deserve respect and politeness, after all, and running away has never been her first choice in adversity. A quick – very quick – goodbye, she decides, and she will depart. She won't even call a cab until she's safely outside. After all, someone has to be the first to leave, and she can't see a single reason why it shouldn't be her. All she wants to do now is go home and go to bed. Most likely, she will lie awake fretting for hours, but at least she will be on her own, and away from judgemental eyes.

Boyd is still corralled in the far corner by Simon, and as she glances in his direction she sees him throw back his head and laugh uproariously. An unselfconscious, full-blooded laugh that would usually cheer her no end. Not this time. Dark tendrils of paranoia claw at the edges of her thoughts, attempting to convince her that she's the object of his obvious amusement. It's a horrible feeling, one that she tries – and fails – to banish. Maybe it's not paranoia, and he _is_ laughing at her. Maybe they all are. _Poor Grace, so old and unattractive that not even the irrepressible Elaine can find someone willing to –_

"Grace?" Helen's voice, quiet and close. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost, you've gone so pale."

There's nothing but concern in the other woman's eyes, but Grace is past caring. She grinds out a tight, "I'm fine. Just suddenly very tired."

"A touch too much _vino_ , eh?" Graham inquires, joining his wife. "Actually, she's right, Grace – you don't look so good, you know."

"Lochlan!" Helen calls before Grace can stop her. "Lochlan, Grace isn't feeling well…"

"I'm _fine_ ," she growls again, but it's too late. Well-meaning figures are starting to close in on her, a worried-looking Lochlan amongst them. Worse, beyond Graham's shoulder she sees Boyd look towards her, say something to Simon and then start into motion himself. She doesn't want to talk to any of them, but least of all to _him_.

"Grace," Lochlan says, taking her by the elbow, "come and sit down. Ian, tell Elaine to bring some water."

"There's nothing wrong with me," she insists, but short of fighting him there's nothing she can do to prevent herself being forcibly seated in the big, comfortable armchair by the ultra-modern fireplace. "Please, I'm absolutely fine…"

"Give her some bloody room, for God's sake," a very familiar and very irritable male voice says. Its owner shoulders his way to the fore and looks down at her, expression bemused and concerned. "Grace? You okay?"

"Should we call a doctor?" Michelle asks from somewhere behind Simon. "Or an ambulance? What does one do in a situation like this?"

"Back off," Boyd growls at the encroaching crowd of guests. "Give her a moment, can't you?"

Michelle's voice again: "I was just – "

"Best do as the man says," Lochlan advises, starting to shepherd people away. "Police First Aid training and all that…"

Before he can ask again, Grace directs a scowl at Boyd and repeats, "I'm fine. I just… felt a bit faint for a moment."

"It _is_ a bit warm in here," he says, glancing round the room.

A flurry of movement heralds the arrival of Elaine bearing a large glass of water. She looks every bit as worried as her husband, but her manner is much calmer as she says, "Here. Sip this."

"Thank you," Grace mutters, accepting the glass. All she wanted to do was leave quietly, and now she seems to be the centre of attention. The cool water's good, though, and it seems to help clear her head, if nothing else.

Elaine is talking to Boyd. Focusing on them, Grace hears, "…her home?"

"Yeah, of course," is the prompt reply. "I'll call a cab."

Indignant, Grace starts, "I don't need – "

"We think you do," Elaine tells her. "It's late, anyway. Tim, go and find her coat and things, will you?"

Still attempting resistance, Grace complains, " _Elaine_ – "

Perching herself on the arm of the chair as Boyd moves away, her friend interrupts, "There's no point in arguing. Tim's been itching to leave for at least the last half hour. I can always tell when he's had enough socialising. He starts – "

" – being rude to people?" Grace suggests.

"Well, I was going to say _brusque_ , but…" A conspiratorial smile, followed by a pleased, "Well, you've got a bit of colour back in your cheeks, at least."

Fighting embarrassment, she says, "Honestly, Elaine, there was nothing wrong with me."

"If you say so. Best get off home anyway. Before things turn nasty when Larry refuses to leave without having 'just one more for the road'."

Looking down at her glass of water, Grace says, "About Tim…"

"Yes?"

It's confession time. "There's something I've been trying to tell you all evening."

"That he's your boss at the CCU?" Elaine says. "Yes, I know. Julia Newman told me."

Startled, Grace can only manage, "Oh."

"Julia told me _last week_. Over coffee."

"What?" she asks.

"To be fair, Grace, I'd invited everybody by then."

"But… but why…?"

"Because," Elaine says with a gentle smile, "on balance we decided that the pair of you needed a subtle nudge."

Outrage joins the raft of emotions Grace is feeling. "'Subtle'? You call this evening _subtle_?"

"My intention was always to try and pair you two up. When I told Julia about it, she couldn't stop laughing. I was quite offended until she explained."

"Does Lochlan know?"

Elaine shakes her head. "Of _course_ not. Do I look like the sort of woman who tells her husband everything? He wouldn't have stood for it, anyway. Male solidarity, and all that."

The tight, sick knot in her stomach is back. "So… you've been enjoying watching me squirm all evening?"

"Oh, Grace," Elaine says with a sigh, "it wasn't like that. Not at all. I meant what I said – Tim's a lovely guy. He really is. I honestly think he'd be good for you – and you for him. How was I supposed to know that you were already… acquainted?"

Grace stares at her old friend, wondering how to even begin to explain. "'Acquainted'? Have you any idea of how stressful and intense our working environment can be, Elaine? How… close… you become to people when you're all under that sort of pressure all the time?"

"Not as close as you'd like to be?" Elaine suggests with an uneasy half-smile.

"Just what the hell did Julia tell you?" Grace demands.

"That you work together, and she's always got the impression that you're very… fond… of him." An impatient shake of the head. "Look, I knew he was in charge of some sort of specialist unit, Grace, but I _swear_ I never put two-and-two together. I had absolutely no idea until Julia told me, and then the more we talked, the more it seemed like a good idea."

"It was a _terrible_ idea," Grace contradicts. "And as for pretending all evening that you had no clue…"

Elaine finally looks a little abashed. "Admittedly, that was a little… mendacious. But it was for the best possible reasons, Grace. It's worked out okay, though, hasn't it? I mean, he's taking you home…"

"Because you press-ganged him into it!"

"No, because he's _concerned_ about you. Don't forget, I know him, too. When did Tim ever do _anything_ that Tim didn't want to do?"

"His name's _Peter_ ," Grace snaps at her.

Looking surprised, Elaine says, "Really?"

"Really. _Peter_ Boyd. Timothy's his middle name."

"Well, well. I never knew that."

"Evidently." Glaring, Grace shakes her head. "Which only goes to show that you don't know him half as well as you think you do. Honestly, Elaine, of all the men you've ever tried to set me up with…"

"He really is _very_ handsome though, isn't he?"

Exasperated, she snaps back, "That's not the bloody point!"

Elaine looks unapologetic, but as she's about to speak, Boyd reappears, coats draped over one arm. "Cab will be here in ten minutes. Come on, Cinderella, say your goodbyes and let's get you home."

-oOo-

It's a chilly night, but having said her farewells, Grace elects to wait for the taxi outside on the pavement. She expects Boyd to grumble and complain, but for some reason he doesn't. He simply follows her out into the cold, hunches deeper into his long grey coat – not one she's seen him wear before – stuffs his hands deep into its pockets and slouches against one of the large, no-nonsense stone gateposts. It doesn't escape her notice that he continues to watch her in contemplative silence long after she's stopped trying to convince him that she doesn't require an escort to get home safely.

Eventually the need to talk becomes too much for her and she asks, "So… what did Simon have to say?"

Boyd shifts position slightly, enough for the street lighting to turn his strong features into a striking, angular study of light and shade. "I have an uncomfortable feeling that I amuse him."

"Oh?"

He doesn't explain, just says, "Persistent, isn't he?"

"Very," Grace agrees, striving to contain curiosity and apprehension. Honesty makes her add, "I rather like him, though."

"Mm."

The noncommittal reply piques her interest even further. Raising her eyebrows a fraction, she says, "Meaning?"

"Huh?" He shakes his head. "Oh, nothing."

"Boyd."

He regards her for a moment, then shrugs. "I was just wondering where Ian fits in."

Grace rolls her eyes at him. "Where on earth do you think? He's _gay_ , Boyd."

"No, really?" he retorts, heavily sarcastic. "I must have missed that bit of the introduction. What I _meant_ was, they're an unlikely couple."

"Oh." Chastened, she adds, "I thought – "

"That I was being reactionary? Oh, _please_."

"Sorry." She studies him for a moment, wondering if there's any way she can persuade him to open up further about his conversation with Simon. Probably not, she decides. Not only is he stubborn, he's taciturn, too, in a very male way. At least thinking about what may or may not have been said stops her from thinking about… Trying to shake off a hot, creeping flush of embarrassment, she changes the subject. "I didn't know Mary was Italian."

"Hm?" He glances at her, then goes back to watching the end of the road. "Oh. Yeah, her parents moved here from Turin when she was just a kid. Who told you that?"

"Elaine."

"No surprise there." A pause and another glance. "You've known her for a while, I take it? Elaine?"

"Over thirty years," Grace confirms with a nod. "We worked for the same mental health team for a while back in the late 'seventies, before I started forensic work."

"Long before she met Lochlan, then."

"Oh yes. Her first husband – Paul – was a serial adulterer. A nasty piece of work, too."

"Birds of a feather," Boyd comments.

"What?" she asks with a frown.

"You, Elaine, Fiona. All divorced from thoroughly unpleasant men who didn't bloody deserve you."

"Owen wasn't unpleasant," Grace argues half-heartedly. "Just… weak."

He snorts, his contempt quite obvious. "I remember."

She forgets, sometimes, that there was a time before the CCU when he was a tough, no-nonsense DCI running high profile investigations that she was sometimes asked to consult on. That he was already somewhere on the periphery of her life when her marriage really started to founder. She nods in silent acknowledgement, thoughts half caught in the past.

"Cab," Boyd says.

It's her turn to frown. "What?"

He nods towards the north end of the road. "Cab."

A dark saloon car with sign-written front door panels is approaching, slowing as the driver spots them. Giving herself a firm mental shake, Grace says, "Why don't you go ahead, and I'll call another. You'll get home much quicker if he doesn't have to drop me off first."

"Nice try, Grace," Boyd says, stepping forwards as the car pulls in to the kerb, "but I told Elaine I'd see you home, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm a man of my word, in case you'd forgotten." Opening the rear door, he adds, "Hop in."

Muttering to herself, she does as she's told. There are times – plenty of them – when she's perfectly happy to argue with him until the bitter end, but tonight is not one of those times. She's simply too tired, too emotionally drained for it. He walks round to the other side of the vehicle, gets in beside her and tells the driver her address, all without sparing her a single glance.

As the car starts back into movement, she says, "Fiona likes you, doesn't she?"

"I'm guessing," Boyd says, settling himself, "that that's a loaded question."

"If you like."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she asks, evading the need to answer for as long as possible.

He sighs. "Go on, Grace, spit it out. Whatever it is you're dying to ask."

She hunches a shoulder in a slight shrug. "I'm just a little… surprised… that she's with Henry…"

"…and not with me?" Boyd guesses. "That rather implies that the decision was entirely _hers_."

Grace is very adept at reading between the lines. She says, "I see. She tried, then."

In the shadows the familiar enigmatic look in his dark eyes is even more difficult to interpret. "It would be ungentlemanly of me to comment."

Thinking again of the private conversation in the hall that she unwittingly overheard, Grace fights down a cold shudder to say, "But you do have history."

Boyd gives her a long, thoughtful look. "Someone's been telling tales out of school."

"I may have overheard something someone said," she tells him, the response as casual as she can make it sound.

"Henry?" he guesses with uncanny accuracy. "Ah, well, heaven knows why, but it's a bit of a sore point with him. We were just kids, Grace. Teenagers mucking about behind the bike sheds."

Trying not to conjure visions that she'll regret, she says, "I really hope you mean that figuratively, Boyd."

He snorts in amusement. "Someone really _has_ been talking, haven't they?"

Curiosity drives her to ask, "What happened?"

"The usual thing that happens when you're that age," is his languid reply. "We split up over something ridiculous, and then she went off with an older lad who promised to take her to Marrakesh."

She can't picture it. "Oh dear. And did he?"

"I believe so. Beats Southend on the back of a borrowed BSA, I guess."

"She regrets it now, though."

"She _thinks_ she does. Rose-tinted spectacles, Grace. The lure of the imaginary 'what might have been'. Truth is, I was never her type. Too unsophisticated, and far too rough round the edges." Another long, penetrating look is followed by, "Did she say something to you?"

He can be far too perceptive sometimes. She falls back on, "Such as?"

A slight shrug. "I don't know. Something… unkind?"

"No," Grace says, hoping to end the conversation. "Nothing like that."

"Because if she did," Boyd continues, "the best thing to do is forget all about it. She doesn't mean any harm, but she can be a bit… antagonistic… sometimes."

Sardonic, she nods. "I got that impression."

"She _did_ say something, didn't she?" Boyd presses. "Christ, trust Fi to put her bloody foot in it. What did she say?"

" _To_ me? Nothing. Nothing at all."

"But…? Come on, Grace, out with it."

"It's nothing," she insists. "Look, Boyd, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Whatever she said, whatever you _heard_ her say, take it with a pinch of salt, eh? Fi loves a good drama, and if there isn't one, she'll try to create one. It's just the way she is. Henry keeps her in check most of the time, but…" Another shrug. "Really, don't let it bother you, whatever it was."

It does bother her, though, the thought of people talking behind her back, sharing ill-conceived opinions about her. And about him. About _them_. Staring straight ahead, Grace doesn't offer any reply. She knows he's looking at her, doesn't risk a glance in his direction.

A minute or more passes in silence before he clears his throat and says, "Things have been difficult for everyone, I know, since Mel…" He breaks off, resumes a moment later with, "Since things changed. Losing Mel and Frankie, getting used to Felix and now Stella… I do realise how tough it's been."

It seems an odd change of direction for the conversation, so she murmurs a vague assent and carries on staring at the passing scenery. Houses, lights, late-night traffic. The odd hurrying pedestrian.

Boyd continues, "What I'm trying to say, Grace, is that my door's always open. I'm not as good at making that clear as I should be, but if you ever need – _want_ – to talk, I'm there to listen. About anything." A pause and then a quick codicil, " _Almost_ anything. I mean, I'm no good at – "

"Quit while you're ahead," she advises, taking pity on him. Pastoral duties are not his forte, and everyone knows that he doesn't enjoy having to undertake them. "But thanks."

"I mean it," he says, and when she finally risks a quick glance, she realises he's staring straight ahead, too. "Because… Well, we're friends, aren't we?"

"We are," Grace agrees cautiously. "Where's this coming from, all of a sudden?"

"I don't know. Tonight, maybe. Being together, but not being at work, I mean."

"It's called _socialising_ , Boyd," she tells him, straight-faced. "An alien concept, I know, but do your best with it."

"I socialise," he retorts, sparing her a quick glare. At her return look, he adds, "I _do_."

"Just not with people from work?" Grace challenges, but without much energy or conviction.

"Well, it's difficult, isn't it? When you're the one in charge. There's all sorts of boundaries and potential pitfalls. I've been caught like that before."

"With Jess Worrall, you mean?" she asks, not sure why it's important to hear him admit as much. It's one of those juicy pieces of gossip that refuses to die, no matter how many years pass. The separated but still-married DI Peter Boyd and his attractive female DS.

His response is a gruff, "Wasn't my finest hour, admittedly. Should've been a bit more interested in following protocol and a bit less interested in trying to convince myself it would all be okay."

Knowing she's heading into dangerous territory, Grace inquires, "And Frankie?"

This time his reply is instant. "Nothing happened between me and Frankie, you _know_ that."

She nods, well-aware that it's the truth. Something – perhaps a lingering trace of sympathy for the woman concerned – makes her say, "Which is exactly the reason she left, of course."

Scowling, he goes back to staring out of the window. "I'm not discussing it, Grace, so don't even try."

She'll never hear his side of it, Grace knows. Maybe that doesn't matter, given how well she knows him, and what Frankie did and didn't say behind closed doors in the final weeks leading up to her eventual resignation. Doesn't matter now, anyway, if it ever did. Eying him, she asks, "So what _are_ you trying to discuss?"

"You. Me." A heavy, frustrated sigh. He looks back at her. "The fact that maybe I don't understand you as well as I thought I did."

A clammy sense of dread seems to clutch at her, adding to her already considerable unease. Keeping her tone as flat as possible, she says, "Simon."

"Simon," Boyd agrees. "He seems to think that you and I need to talk."

"We talk all the time," she points out, not liking the direction the conversation is taking.

" _Properly_. Not about work stuff."

The sight of the junction ahead is a welcome one. Fumbling for her handbag, she says, "We're here."

"Grace," he says, as the driver executes the turn. His tone is reproachful.

"Here," she says, producing a folded banknote from her purse, "this should cover my share of the journey."

"Oh, for… Put your money away."

"I insist," she says, thrusting the note towards him.

"And I decline," he says, refusing to take it. "I was paying for a ride home tonight whether I gave someone else a lift or not."

"Boyd."

"Grace."

The cab comes to a smooth halt just outside her neighbour's house. Looking round at them, the driver says nothing. It's quite clear he's seen similar squabbling many, many times before. Simply to end his impassive scrutiny, she stuffs the banknote bag into her bag and mutters, "Fine. But I'll buy lunch on Monday." To the driver, she adds, "He's going on to Greenwich. Probert Road."

"No, he's not," Boyd announces as she opens the car door, she looks round to find him fishing his wallet out of his coat pocket. "How much?"

"Twenty quid, mate," the driver says. His complete lack of interest in the scene being played out is palpable.

"Boyd," Grace starts to object, but it's too late – he's already handing over the money.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

"I'm tired, Boyd, and you're only here on sufferance," Grace tells him as he takes off his coat and settles on the sofa without waiting for an invitation, "so don't get too comfortable. _One_ drink, and then off you go into the night. Scotch or brandy?"

Stretching out his legs, he says, "Best stick with the brandy, I think."

"' _Grape or grain, but never the twain'_?" she quotes with a smirk. "Fearing the hangover you're going to have tomorrow?"

"No, just guarding against the eventuality," Boyd tells her, glancing round the room. "Have you decorated since I was last here?"

"Probably," she says, extracting the barely-touched bottle of brandy from behind the gin, the sherry, and the whisky. "You're not exactly a regular visitor. In fact, I don't think you've been here since that year I was attacked on my birthday."

"The Sutton brothers," he says, clearly remembering the connected investigation as well as she does. "Christ, has it really been that long?"

Finding an appropriately-sized glass, Grace nods and starts to pour him a drink. "Well, you've come to the door a few times since then, but you haven't been brave enough to actually cross the threshold."

He grunts, still looking round the room, as if making the most of the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. "I don't know why you don't move, Grace. Find yourself a nice flat somewhere."

"Why would I?"

Frowning, he shrugs. "I don't know. Bad memories, maybe?"

"Well, by that reasoning, why don't _you_ sell _your_ place?" she challenges, turning the question back on him.

Boyd frowns. "That's different. Mary and I agreed that one of us should stay there. Just in case… you know."

Of course. The missing son. The last stubborn threads of the battered hope that one day, _one day_ , he might, just _might_ come home again. She's never been able to imagine just how hard it must be to live year after year without closure, to wake every morning to face yet another harrowing day of the unknown. She wonders if Boyd _ever_ forgets, even for a moment, or whether the pain is there with him every single moment of every single day. Realising that the uncomfortable silence is elongating, she announces, "Brandy."

He stands up to take the glass from her, a tall, broad-shouldered figure who somehow doesn't look as out of place in her cosy living room as he should. He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Not your favourite?"

"No," Grace admits. "I'm more of a gin and tonic kind of girl."

"Me, too." An immediate scowl. " _Guy_. A gin and tonic kind of _guy_."

Chuckling, she says, "It's all right, Boyd, I don't think you're in any real danger of ever being mistaken for a woman."

"Oh?"

"No," she informs him. "Too tall."

"Oh." He sounds oddly disappointed as he settles back onto the sofa, as if he expected her to pass comment on something else entirely.

Deciding to eschew the gin in favour of the wine she opened early the evening before, Grace retreats to the relative safety of her favourite armchair. A little saggy, a little threadbare, but incredibly comfortable. If Boyd recognises her position as a defensive one, well, she's too tired to care. Observing him over the rim of her glass, she eventually says, "So…?"

"Eh?"

Striving for patience, she offers, "Simon…? Thinking we should talk…?"

"Oh. That."

" _That_ ," she agrees. "Well?"

Boyd looks down, as if lost in a deep contemplation of his drink. Grace waits, determined not to break first. It takes him several more moments, but finally he asks, "Why did you marry Maguire?"

The question is so unexpected that for a second or two her mind seems to go completely blank. Frowning, she stares at him and then says, "What sort of question is that?"

"An honest one," he replies. "I've always wondered why you did it – and don't try to tell me you were madly in love with him, because we both know that's not the case."

 _Simon_ , she thinks. Damn him. She tries to counter with, "It's perfectly possible to love someone without being _in_ love with them, Boyd."

"Granted. But that's not an answer to my question, is it?"

For a moment Grace debates the wisdom of telling him the absolute truth. Wonders how he'd react, how much it would change his opinion of her. She shakes her head. "You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I." It doesn't sound like a question, not even a rhetorical one.

"No," she asserts, with growing conviction, "you wouldn't."

"Because I'm a man?" Boyd inquires, with the suggestion of a sneer.

"Because," she bites back in correction, before she can stop herself, "you're an _attractive_ man."

The look he gives her in return is unreadable. "Even if that were true – "

"Oh, _please_ ," she sniffs. "False modesty really doesn't suit you, Boyd."

" – I don't see the relevance."

"Exactly my point," Grace tells him, darkly pleased with herself. "Maybe the answer to your question is simply that _he asked me to_."

"And no-one else ever had?"

Stung, she glares across the room at him. "I didn't say _that_."

"Well, then. Try again, Grace."

"People like _you_ ," she accuses, "simply don't understand how overwhelming it can be to suddenly feel like you're the centre of someone's universe. You don't understand what it feels like to suddenly be… special… to someone."

"That isn't just presumptuous," Boyd says, his calm, weary tone surprising her, "it's also completely illogical. In effect what you're saying is that a huge part of someone's life can be dictated by some totally subjective yardstick."

It's not the kind of response Grace would have ever expected from him. Forced onto the defensive by his perspicacity, she says, "I _told_ you that you wouldn't understand. How on earth could you?"

Boyd doesn't say anything for a moment. When he does, his tone is measured. "It's true that I've slept with a lot of women over the years, Grace – not something I'm necessarily proud of – but I can count on the fingers of one hand the number who actually gave a damn about me. About _me_ , as a person, not just as a brief diversion from whatever else was going on in their lives."

Looking at him, Grace doesn't doubt the veracity of his claim. Not for a moment. Her initial surprise doesn't last long in the face of what she can read in his expression. A touch of something so deeply resigned that it's almost… haunted. Not sure what sort of reply is expected, she tries, "I've met a lot of men who wouldn't see that as a bad thing."

"I believe you," he says, with no discernible trace of humour. "I'm not saying I hate it… quite the contrary, sometimes."

"But…?" she prompts.

He looks upwards, stares at the ceiling as he says slowly, "But… Well, sex is just a commodity, isn't it? Something _anyone_ can get, if they're prepared to go about it the right – or the _wrong_ – way. But what you said… being _special_ to someone… that's a much more difficult thing to… acquire."

Grace seizes on the word. "'Acquire'?"

"Obtain, then. To find. However you want to bloody put it." Boyd shakes his head, looks at her and then says, "That's why you married him, isn't it? Not because you loved him, but because he needed you, and you needed to be needed. You needed to be someone's 'special person'."

His unusual level of perception only adds to her discomfort. He's right, of course. Completely and categorically right. Refusing to look away, she holds his steady gaze and says, "Fair enough. You're right. Happy now?"

"No," he says. A long, tense pause, then, "You think I'm judging you?"

"That's rather the impression I'm getting."

"Well, I'm not," he contradicts, his voice flat. "Sometimes I think I've forgotten what it feels like. To be _that_ important to someone. To be the person that makes someone else light up inside. To be the one they want to share things with, want to turn to when things go wrong. The person they never want to be parted from."

There's so much behind those words, she realises. A shattering level of regret, loneliness, and bitter despair that's usually hidden so deep below the surface that no-one would ever detect it. "That's… quite a speech, Boyd."

"That's what you were to him," he says, staring straight at her.

"Maybe," Grace concedes. "In some ways."

"But not what _he_ was to _you_."

"Sad, but true," she admits. Tipping her head back, she closes her eyes. She's tired, the room is warm, and the additional alcohol isn't helping her ability to concentrate as well as she knows should. "There _have_ been men I felt like that about. Several of them, in fact. One just didn't feel the same way, one had absolutely no concept of fidelity, and the other turned out to be married. And that's without the also-rans. Not a particularly good record, is it?"

His reply is a dry, "All my life I've repeatedly fallen for the wrong women, Grace, so I don't think I'm in any position to judge."

"Define 'wrong'," she says, not opening her eyes.

"Off-limits, already attached," Grace can almost hear him shrug, "or simply completely unobtainable. The women I want never seem to be the women who want _me_. With a couple of notable exceptions."

Not being able to see him seems to make it much easier to say things that would normally be impossible. "So, what… you've given up on looking for relationships that mean something?"

"I've never really been the kind of guy who deliberately went out _looking_ for anything."

Simon's words drift into her mind: _'Tim doesn't chase women. They chase him.'_ Maybe that's always been the case, she thinks. Or almost always. Opening one eyes, Grace squints at him. He's staring off into the mid-distance, resting his glass on his knee, his posture more relaxed than she's ever seen it. Hardly surprising, the amount they've both had to drink over the course of the long evening. Closing the peeking eye again, she says, "Well, maybe that's where you've been going wrong all this time, Boyd."

He doesn't offer agreement or argument, instead asks, "What about you?"

"What about me?" she counters, but without much energy or enthusiasm. Sleep is beginning to look infinitely preferable to going round and round in endless circles with him, neither of them ever quite getting to the point. Whatever the damn point is.

"Have _you_ given up?"

"On relationships in general, or…?"

"Whatever. Is there one last great romance out there for you, do you think?"

"Who knows?" It really is becoming a struggle not to doze. Opening her eyes seems to have become an impossibility.

"What if someone came along?" he insists. "What then?"

"You're starting to sound just like Elaine, you know," she murmurs, as she starts to drift. "Maybe someone already…"

"Grace?" Boyd's voice seems to be coming from a long, long way away. "Grace…?"

-oOo-

It's the dull, grinding pain in the small of her back that gradually wakes her. That, and an increasing awareness of the grey morning light that's making its way into the room around the edges of the long curtains. Grace tries to turn over, realises that she can't, that she's not lying in her wide, comfortable bed, but is still curled up in her favourite armchair. Something soft and heavy and unfamiliar is keeping her warm. Blinking in sleepy confusion, she raises her head a fraction. She's alone in the room… but she immediately spots the pair of highly-polished men's shoes abandoned on the floor by the sofa. It's not just the ache in her back or the nagging pain behind her eyes that makes her groan and drop her head back onto the cushion that's been serving as a pillow.

There's no comfortable, comforting, alcohol-induced amnesia to take the sting out of the situation. She remembers every single moment of the preceding evening. Right up until…

Until she fell asleep, mid-conversation.

Which, no doubt, Boyd will never, _ever_ let her live down.

The heavy, soft thing spread over her is not a blanket or a rug, she realises. It's his thick wool coat. The lining is smooth and silky, warm from her body heat, and it smells faintly of the expensive, unfamiliar cologne she noticed over dinner. She has no recollection of him draping it over her, but there's no other explanation for its presence. The thought triggers an unexpected flash of memory. Owen, sullen and petulant because she was late back from an evening lecture given by an old friend. Owen tight-lipped and refusing to argue, refusing to openly admit that he was furious with her for 'neglecting' him. Owen stalking off to bed without a word, leaving her to sit alone fretting until she finally fell asleep on the sofa.

Owen would _never_ have done something as simple as carefully and quietly cover her with something to prevent her from getting cold as she slept. Not even in the very first days of their marriage. Not because he was unkind, but because he was so oblivious, so utterly self-absorbed, that even that tiny act of ordinary kindness would never have occurred to him.

She raises her head just enough to peer at the clock on the wall. A little after eight-thirty. Far too early on a Sunday morning. On a _normal_ Sunday morning.

This is not a normal Sunday morning. Somewhere in the house there's an unexpected guest to be faced.

Uncurling, Grace winces at the pain in her back and the stiffness in her shoulders. The nagging shadow of a potential hangover doesn't help. Slowly sitting up straight, she notices that the bottle of brandy she left on the shelf is now on the coffee table. As are both glasses, his and hers. He must have taken hers from her when he realised that she was asleep. She wonders why he didn't wake her. More importantly, why he didn't call a cab and leave.

Finding her feet, she struggles upright, glad when the world doesn't immediately start to spin around her. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that she's most definitely not looking her best. The olive-green dress she plucked from her wardrobe to wear to dinner at Lochlan and Elaine's is hopelessly crumpled, and her tights are laddered in at least two places. She thinks her shoes are out in the hall, but she's not entirely sure. Taking another mournful look at her reflection, she sees, just for a second, a glimpse of her much younger self looking back at her. It's enough to make her risk a rueful smile as she remembers some of the exciting escapades of days long gone by.

Moving with some care, Grace heads for the kitchen via the hall. Shoes, coat, and handbag all accounted for, she tracks various quiet sounds of movement to their source. Boyd, tousled and yawning, propped against the kitchen counter apparently waiting for the kettle to boil. Despite trying not to, she manages to notice that several buttons on his untucked shirt have come adrift overnight exposing a wide swathe of broad, bare chest. It's an infuriatingly distracting sight.

"Hi," he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Not able to think of anything much better in the way of greeting, she echoes him with a weak, "Hi."

"Tea?" he asks, gesturing at the two waiting mugs that he's lined up. "Or coffee?"

"Coffee," she decides, moving towards the fridge. "Most definitely coffee."

"Hangover?"

"Heading in that general direction," she admits. "You?"

"With enough caffeine, I'll probably live to fight another day." Boyd folds his arms, gazes at her as she sniffs the milk and decides it's probably still useable. There's a faint teasing note in his voice as he says, "I did consider carrying you upstairs at whatever time it was, but the chances are I would have dropped you. I was a bit unsteady on my feet by then."

He doesn't seem to be feeling anything like as delicate as she is. It's really not fair. "Boyd?"

"What?"

Grace flaps a feeble hand in his general direction. "Indoor voice, please."

"Oh dear. That bad?"

She ignores his mock-solicitude. "I think the nightcap was a bit of a mistake. In hindsight."

A quiet chuckle. "Nothing to do with the staggering amount of wine you managed to knock back _before_ that?"

"Why didn't you go home?" she asks, ignoring the question. It doesn't feel like an unreasonable thing to ask.

"I _was_ going to call a cab, but the brandy got the better of me and I ended up falling asleep on the sofa." He gives her a rueful half-grin that fades as he inquires, "You don't mind, do you?"

"No," she says, deciding that, all things considered, his unforeseen presence is fairly low on her list of current worries. Calling Elaine and apologising for her sudden departure is much higher up the list. As the kettle clicks off and Boyd turns away to busy himself making coffee, Grace subsides onto the nearest of the two kitchen chairs. "She knew, you know."

He spares her a quick glance. "Eh?"

"Elaine," she clarifies, massaging her temples. "She knew all the time. That we were… acquainted. Julia Newman told her last week."

A snort is followed by, "Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, it surprised _me_ ," she grumbles. "I felt like such a fool when she admitted it, as if she'd been secretly laughing at us all evening."

"Hm."

Staring at the back of his head, she continues, "Do you know what she said when I challenged her about it?"

Boyd throws a teaspoon into the sink with a loud clatter that makes her wince. "No. Not being a bloody mind-reader."

"That she and Julia thought we could do with a nudge."

"A nudge?"

"Use your imagination, Boyd. What's Elaine's favourite hobby?"

"Shopping?"

" _Match-making_."

Back to her, he seems to freeze for a moment. "Oh."

As a response, it seems lacking. She wishes she could see his face. He's good at schooling his features into an impassive mask, but his eyes… his eyes are generally much easier to read. When no further comment is forthcoming, she says, "We were well-and-truly set up."

"Seems so," Boyd agrees, turning to bring her a gently steaming mug. "Coffee."

Her stomach churns just at the smell of it. "Thanks."

His steady gaze is thoughtful. What he says when he speaks is a surprise. "Bacon."

"What?"

"Bacon," he repeats. "Guaranteed hangover cure."

"There isn't any," Grace tells him. Shaking her head, she adds, "A psychologist I may well be, but to this day I have absolutely _no_ idea how your mind works, Boyd."

"Drives you crazy, doesn't it?" he says with another half-grin. Before she can reply, he continues, "There's one of those little convenience shops on the end of Lancaster Street, isn't there? I'll walk down there and get some."

The morning seems to be getting more and more surreal with every passing moment. "Eh?"

" _Bacon_ ," Boyd says yet again. "Come on, Grace, wakey-wakey."

"I _am_ awake," she growls at him, "I just don't have your sickening amount of energy or enthusiasm for it. Not at this hour on a Sunday."

"Drink your coffee," he instructs, "and then go and have a shower, or whatever. By the time you're feeling half-human again there will be bacon sandwiches."

"Oh, God…" Grace shakes her head again. "Are you always this exasperating first thing in the morning?"

"No," he says, the mischievous, boyish grin finally breaking through at full force, "sometimes I'm much, _much_ worse."

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The shower helps more than Grace expects. In fact, by the time she's ready to get dressed, the distinctive aroma of frying bacon filtering up the stairs is, thankfully, considerably more mouth-watering than nauseating. Part of her is more than half-convinced that she is still asleep and is having a particularly bizarre and improbable dream – one that features Peter Boyd taking over her kitchen – but if she is, well, then there's no reason not to finish dressing, apply a little light make-up, and go downstairs to investigate. She's almost at the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rings. Conditioned not to ignore the dictatorial summons, she goes to answer it without thinking too much about who the hell might be boorish enough to disturb her on a Sunday morning.

There's something Karmic about opening the front door to find Elaine looking back at her.

"Grace," her old friend says, more bright and breezy than anyone has a right to be so early on the morning after hosting such a bibulous dinner party. "How are you feeling? I was still a bit worried about you, so I thought I'd drop Lochlan off at his squash club and then come and see how you were."

Knowing Elaine, it's probably the absolute truth. For all her propensity for meddling in the love-lives of her unattached friends, she's a kind and compassionate woman with a huge amount of natural empathy. Touched by the concern, Grace is on the verge of smiling in gratitude when she remembers that she's not as alone in the house as she quite naturally expected to be. Suspecting that she may suddenly look a little like the proverbial rabbit-in-the-headlights, she manages a weak, "Oh… I'm fine. Thank you. Yes, just fine now."

Elaine does not look convinced. She frowns, asks, "Are you sure? You still seem rather pale. Maybe – " she breaks off and Grace knows. She just _knows_. She doesn't need to hear the loud, excited, " _Tim_."

"Elaine," Boyd's voice returns from further back in the hall, the tone studiously neutral.

Grace inhales slowly. Holds the long breath for a moment. Exhales just as slowly. Staring at a fixed point just past Elaine's ear, she says, "It's really not what it looks like."

The other woman is grinning in unmitigated delight. "No, of _course_ it's not."

"It's _not_ ," Grace insists, but she knows the battle is already lost. Nothing, but _nothing_ , will persuade Elaine that there could be any other explanation for Boyd's presence so early in the day than the obvious. Not now, not ever. "Elaine…"

"Nothing to do with me," Elaine says promptly, holding up both hands. "I didn't see a thing. I didn't even drop by today."

If anything, the rapid response only increases Grace's rising indignation. "But – "

"I'm _so_ glad the two of you have finally come to your senses," Elaine interrupts. "You're absolutely made for each other. I'm really happy for you both."

" _Elaine_ ," Grace tries again, as Boyd finally arrives at her shoulder to scowl at Elaine. Sparing him a quick, narrow-eyed glare, she says, " _You_ try talking to her, because she's not listening to _me_."

"What makes you think she'll listen to _me_?" Boyd demands. "Bloody woman's incorrigible."

"I am," Elaine agrees, apparently not at all offended. "Now, Tim, you know I adore you, but a word of advice – "

"Oh, bugger off, Elaine," he tells her, but without the explosive ire Grace expects. "I'm a big boy, I can do this all on my own without your help."

"Well, do try your best not to screw it up, won't you? Please?"

"Goodbye, Elaine," he says, reaching past Grace to push the front door closed in the other woman's face. There's a mild but audible grumble of complaint, then the sound of quick, retreating footsteps.

For a moment Grace just stares at the closed door in front of her. Taking another deep, calming breath, she doesn't look round as she inquires, "What just happened?"

Boyd's reply is a casual, "That? That, Grace, was me finally losing patience with the entire ridiculous situation, I'm afraid."

Bewildered, she turns to ask, "Eh?"

He's much closer than she expects. Startlingly so. What strikes her most forcefully is just how much taller than her he really is when viewed at such close quarters. She's used to having to glance up at him in conversation, of course, but not to having to incline her head quite so far back to make eye-contact. In response he tilts his head a fraction to one side, a touch thoughtful, a touch quizzical. "You _really_ need me to explain?"

Even to Grace, her voice sounds far too high-pitched as she says, "The bacon – "

" – is getting cold," Boyd says. "I had the presence of mind to turn off the gas before coming to rescue you."

"You didn't rescue me," she objects. "In fact, you made things a hundred times _worse_. If you'd stayed put, I would have got rid of her, and everything would be – "

"Just the same?" he suggests. " _Status quo_ still perfectly intact?"

"You did it on _purpose_ …?" Grace demands, astonished. "Why would you _do_ that, knowing how much Elaine likes to gossip?"

"Why do you think?" he asks, still so uncharacteristically placid that Grace starts seriously questioning her own sanity.

Owen never cooked breakfast for her. Not once in all the time they were together. Ridiculous as the spurious thought is, it suddenly seems to be vitally important.

"If you're even _vaguely_ thinking about trying to kiss me," she says, surprised by just how calm she sounds, "now is probably the optimal moment to give it a go."

Boyd laughs. _Really_ laughs, as if all the building tension of the last twelve or more hours dissipates in a heartbeat. For him, at least. Grace isn't sure whether to glare or to laugh along with him. It's not a decision she has to consider for long.

As first kisses go, it ranks quite high. Tentative at first, becoming more decisive as they intuitively find their way with each other.

The second is even better, and it lasts much, much longer.

"Good," he says when he draws back.

Still slightly stunned by the rapid turn of events, it takes Grace a moment to realise it's not a question. "Good…?"

"You didn't slap me, or attempt to knee me in the balls," he explains. "Always a good sign."

And that's when _she_ starts to laugh.

-oOo-

The afternoon is sunny with just enough late autumn bite to make Grace draw her coat more tightly around herself and quicken her pace as she heads back to her companion. Sitting alone on one of the wooden benches facing the park's large oval duck pond, he looks so relaxed and so indolent that she finds it difficult to believe that he's the same intense, energetic, highly-motivated man she's worked with for so long. It's still fascinating her, the marked difference between his calm, off-duty, away-from-work character, and the fierce, formidable police officer persona she's much more used to.

His eyes are closed, she realises, settling next to him. He looks rather as if he's idly dozing in the bright sunshine, but she knows he's not. Just a little proprietorial, she sips her just-purchased hot drink and watches him without saying a word.

"Coffee?" he inquires, not opening his eyes.

"Tea." Still studying him, Grace wonders what he's thinking about, whether his thoughts mirror hers at all. Whether he's thinking about the way it felt to lie naked together under tumbled sheets. Whether he's wondering what happens next, where they go from here. Everything's the same, and yet everything's different. Hidden away beneath the warm grey coat and the creased blue shirt under it, she can now accurately picture the exact places on his flank where Reece Dickson's murderously sharp tantō found it's mark. Can close her eyes and visualise the old, diagonal surgical scar on the nearest shoulder, pale against the surrounding skin. She's already traced her lips along the length of it more than once, bestowing gentle kisses where a surgeon's scalpel once cut deep and precise. Battle scars. They've both got them, inside and out.

"It's started," she says, with hard-won stoicism. "There are two messages on my phone from Helen, and one from Simon. God knows where he got my number from."

"Two guesses."

"One's enough," she sniffs. "How long before _everyone_ knows?"

Turning his head, Boyd opens his eyes. They look hazel in the direct sunlight. "Why? Does it bother you?"

Deciding to be honest, Grace nods. "A little. I really don't like the idea of people gossiping about us behind our backs."

"People have been doing that at work for _years_ , Grace."

"That's different," she objects. "That's just baseless rumour and silly office tittle-tattle." Something else occurs to her. "You know about that?"

"You'd be surprised how little escapes my notice," he says, looking towards the pond where a young couple with two small children have stopped to feed the ducks.

"Actually, I wouldn't," she tells him, noticing how his expression turns reflective as he watches the smiling parents and the excited children. "I'm well-aware that you pretend not to listen just to annoy me."

"Not true. Sometimes I'm genuinely not listening."

There's so much she wants to ask him about tomorrow, about the days ahead. About what they're going to do, how they're going to deal with such a momentous change in their already tumultuous relationship. Wants to ask him, but can't. Not without souring the afternoon. He's not in the mood for it, not today. Maybe not _ever_. Every cautious attempt she's made neatly redirected or simply rebuffed with an easy charm deliberately designed to mask a will of iron.

Instead, she asks, "What was all that talking about last night? After we left Elaine's?"

Boyd doesn't look at her. "Procrastination."

"Really? That's not like you." When there's no response, she adds, "Why?"

He doesn't answer immediately, so she waits, using his own well-honed interview tactics against him. Eventually he says, "You told me I wouldn't understand why you married Maguire."

Remembering the conversation all too clearly, Grace nods. "Yes."

"Because you said I was… attractive." It's clear he finds applying the word to himself distasteful, and this time she doesn't accuse him of false modesty. "What I said is true, though, isn't it? Attractiveness is entirely subjective."

"I've never denied that," she points out. It's quite clear that something important is driving his side of the conversation, so she prods him with, "What are you trying to say, Boyd?"

"Maybe… that you don't have the monopoly on insecurity." He focuses on her again, the sunshine-hazel eyes searching her face. He looks weary, she thinks. Like a man who's been struggling alone for too long with his thoughts. "You really think I don't know what people say about me, Grace? That I'm somehow oblivious to the fact that I'm seen as a quick-tempered misfit with a chip on his shoulder? That half the Met think I'm a dangerous loose cannon who's unfit for command, and the other half think I'm a womanising tyrant who heartlessly drove his own son away?"

"'Tyrant' might be putting it a bit too strongly," she says, and at his dark expression holds up her free hand. "Sorry, sorry. I still don't quite understand what you're really saying, though."

"Cards on the table?"

Not sure what she's agreeing to, Grace gives him a slow, reluctant nod. "Go on."

"You and me… we were attracted to each other from the word go. True?"

The bold statement rattles her. Defensive, she replies, "Well, I can't speak for _you_ …"

"Trust me." Boyd looks at the pond again. The young couple and their children have moved on now, leaving a cluster of squabbling ducks in their wake. "The reasons don't matter, we just _were_. But neither of us did anything about it. Why?"

"Work," Grace replies without hesitation.

"Bullshit," he retorts. "Work is – _was_ – a convenient excuse, and you know it. Oh, it's not going to be easy, we both know that, but plenty of other people who work together seem to be able to find a way through the minefield. We could've kicked over the traces a long time ago, but we didn't. We carried on playing stupid games with each other. Games we'd _still_ be playing if it wasn't for bloody Elaine."

"And Julia," Grace adds. "All right, yes, you're right. What I really want to know, though, was why we spent last night talking ourselves round and round in bloody circles. Why didn't you just _do_ something?"

"Why didn't _you_?" he growls back, a familiar hint of impatience showing.

"Because…" she starts, then heaves a sigh. "Oh, I don't know. Because..."

"Just _say_ it, Grace."

He's not going to let the matter drop. Gritting her teeth, she grinds out a difficult and reluctant admission. " _Because_ I never thought that a man like _you_ would ever be interested in a woman like _me_."

"Bingo," he says. "We got there in the end."

"No, we didn't," she contradicts, infuriated by his response, "because that's only _half_ the story, Boyd."

"And the other half's exactly the bloody the same," he tells her, intense again. "Why would I _ever_ have thought that a woman like _you_ would be interested in a man like _me_?"

She stares at him in bemusement. "Because – "

"No," Boyd says, shaking his head. "There's no 'because'. Like I said, you don't have the monopoly on insecurity, Grace."

He's not lying to her. Grace can see it in the defiant way he holds her gaze. It seems improbable – even _impossible_ – that he could ever be as afraid of mockery and rejection as she's somehow managed to become over the years. Yet… Yet, there it is, stark in the way Boyd watches her, the deep-seated fear of being rebuffed and ridiculed by someone who matters. A mirror-image of all her confused thoughts and feelings, all her crippling fears and uncertainties.

All the things that could have been if they'd both been braver…

All the things that could be from now on, if they can just somehow learn how to communicate effectively…

Weakly, she says, "Well, hurray for Elaine and her fondness for interfering, then."

"Quite," he agrees, and goes back to staring at the pond in meditative silence.

The sun is disappearing behind grey clouds, and a stiff breeze is picking up, adding to the afternoon's deepening chill. People are beginning to walk a little faster, either to keep warm, or to escape the forecast rain that seems to be coming. A big man with a very small dog on a long lead hurries past them, jacket collar turned up against the cold.

Reflecting on everything that's happened since she arrived in Highgate the previous night, Grace gives her companion a sideways glance and inquires, "Did you and Fiona really…?"

Boyd returns the glance with a brief, endearingly rakish grin. "Yeah. We did. More than once, actually."

Amused, she shakes her head. "Well, I hope she enjoyed Marrakesh."

"Knowing what Fi was like when she was younger, I'm quite sure she bloody did."

"So," she dares to ask, after several long, quiet moments, "what do we do now?"

"Now?" Boyd shrugs, everything about his attitude and posture deliberately nonchalant. "I guess we go and find your car, you drive me home, and we just take it from there."

It's a risk, but she can't help but question, "And tomorrow…?"

"Tomorrow, Grace," he says, standing up and holding out a hand to her, "can go screw itself."

 _\- the end -_


End file.
